Martin Chuzzlewit. Чарльз Диккенс

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СКАЧАТЬ so much in want of something warm and cheering in my life; but I didn’t like to run the chance of being found drinking it, without knowing what kind of person you were; for first impressions, you know, often go a long way, and last a long time.’

      Mr Pinch assented, and the punch was ordered. In due course it came; hot and strong. After drinking to each other in the steaming mixture, they became quite confidential.

      ‘I’m a sort of relation of Pecksniff’s, you know,’ said the young man.

      ‘Indeed!’ cried Mr Pinch.

      ‘Yes. My grandfather is his cousin, so he’s kith and kin to me, somehow, if you can make that out. I can’t.’

      ‘Then Martin is your Christian name?’ said Mr Pinch, thoughtfully. ‘Oh!’

      ‘Of course it is,’ returned his friend: ‘I wish it was my surname for my own is not a very pretty one, and it takes a long time to sign. Chuzzlewit is my name.’

      ‘Dear me!’ cried Mr Pinch, with an involuntary start.

      ‘You’re not surprised at my having two names, I suppose?’ returned the other, setting his glass to his lips. ‘Most people have.’

      ‘Oh, no,’ said Mr Pinch, ‘not at all. Oh dear no! Well!’ And then remembering that Mr Pecksniff had privately cautioned him to say nothing in reference to the old gentleman of the same name who had lodged at the Dragon, but to reserve all mention of that person for him, he had no better means of hiding his confusion than by raising his own glass to his mouth. They looked at each other out of their respective tumblers for a few seconds, and then put them down empty.

      ‘I told them in the stable to be ready for us ten minutes ago,’ said Mr Pinch, glancing at the clock again. ‘Shall we go?’

      ‘If you please,’ returned the other.

      ‘Would you like to drive?’ said Mr Pinch; his whole face beaming with a consciousness of the splendour of his offer. ‘You shall, if you wish.’

      ‘Why, that depends, Mr Pinch,’ said Martin, laughing, ‘upon what sort of a horse you have. Because if he’s a bad one, I would rather keep my hands warm by holding them comfortably in my greatcoat pockets.’

      He appeared to think this such a good joke, that Mr Pinch was quite sure it must be a capital one. Accordingly, he laughed too, and was fully persuaded that he enjoyed it very much. Then he settled his bill, and Mr Chuzzlewit paid for the punch; and having wrapped themselves up, to the extent of their respective means, they went out together to the front door, where Mr Pecksniff’s property stopped the way.

      ‘I won’t drive, thank you, Mr Pinch,’ said Martin, getting into the sitter’s place. ‘By the bye, there’s a box of mine. Can we manage to take it?’

      ‘Oh, certainly,’ said Tom. ‘Put it in, Dick, anywhere!’

      It was not precisely of that convenient size which would admit of its being squeezed into any odd corner, but Dick the hostler got it in somehow, and Mr Chuzzlewit helped him. It was all on Mr Pinch’s side, and Mr Chuzzlewit said he was very much afraid it would encumber him; to which Tom said, ‘Not at all;’ though it forced him into such an awkward position, that he had much ado to see anything but his own knees. But it is an ill wind that blows nobody any good; and the wisdom of the saying was verified in this instance; for the cold air came from Mr Pinch’s side of the carriage, and by interposing a perfect wall of box and man between it and the new pupil, he shielded that young gentleman effectually; which was a great comfort.

      It was a clear evening, with a bright moon. The whole landscape was silvered by its light and by the hoar-frost; and everything looked exquisitely beautiful. At first, the great serenity and peace through which they travelled, disposed them both to silence; but in a very short time the punch within them and the healthful air without, made them loquacious, and they talked incessantly. When they were halfway home, and stopped to give the horse some water, Martin (who was very generous with his money) ordered another glass of punch, which they drank between them, and which had not the effect of making them less conversational than before. Their principal topic of discourse was naturally Mr Pecksniff and his family; of whom, and of the great obligations they had heaped upon him, Tom Pinch, with the tears standing in his eyes, drew such a picture as would have inclined any one of common feeling almost to revere them; and of which Mr Pecksniff had not the slightest foresight or preconceived idea, or he certainly (being very humble) would not have sent Tom Pinch to bring the pupil home.

      In this way they went on, and on, and on – in the language of the story-books – until at last the village lights appeared before them, and the church spire cast a long reflection on the graveyard grass; as if it were a dial (alas, the truest in the world!) marking, whatever light shone out of Heaven, the flight of days and weeks and years, by some new shadow on that solemn ground.

      ‘A pretty church!’ said Martin, observing that his companion slackened the slack pace of the horse, as they approached.

      ‘Is it not?’ cried Tom, with great pride. ‘There’s the sweetest little organ there you ever heard. I play it for them.’

      ‘Indeed?’ said Martin. ‘It is hardly worth the trouble, I should think. What do you get for that, now?’

      ‘Nothing,’ answered Tom.

      ‘Well,’ returned his friend, ‘you are a very strange fellow!’

      To which remark there succeeded a brief silence.

      ‘When I say nothing,’ observed Mr Pinch, cheerfully, ‘I am wrong, and don’t say what I mean, because I get a great deal of pleasure from it, and the means of passing some of the happiest hours I know. It led to something else the other day; but you will not care to hear about that I dare say?’

      ‘Oh yes I shall. What?’

      ‘It led to my seeing,’ said Tom, in a lower voice, ‘one of the loveliest and most beautiful faces you can possibly picture to yourself.’

      ‘And yet I am able to picture a beautiful one,’ said his friend, thoughtfully, ‘or should be, if I have any memory.’

      ‘She came’ said Tom, laying his hand upon the other’s arm, ‘for the first time very early in the morning, when it was hardly light; and when I saw her, over my shoulder, standing just within the porch, I turned quite cold, almost believing her to be a spirit. A moment’s reflection got the better of that, of course, and fortunately it came to my relief so soon, that I didn’t leave off playing.’

      ‘Why fortunately?’

      ‘Why? Because she stood there, listening. I had my spectacles on, and saw her through the chinks in the curtains as plainly as I see you; and she was beautiful. After a while she glided off, and I continued to play until she was out of hearing.’

      ‘Why did you do that?’

      ‘Don’t you see?’ responded Tom. ‘Because she might suppose I hadn’t seen her; and might return.’

      ‘And did she?’

      ‘Certainly she did. Next morning, and next evening too; but always when there were no people about, and always alone. I rose earlier and sat there later, that when she came, she might find the church door open, and the organ playing, and might not be disappointed. She strolled that way for some days, and always stayed to listen. But she is gone now, and of all unlikely things in this wide world, СКАЧАТЬ