Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Martin Chuzzlewit by Charles Dickens (top novels .txt) 📖
- Author: Charles Dickens
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Book online «Martin Chuzzlewit by Charles Dickens (top novels .txt) 📖». Author Charles Dickens
Awoke to find Jonas standing at his bedside watching him. And that very door wide open.
As their eyes met, Jonas retreated a few paces, and Montague sprang out of bed.
‘Heyday!’ said Jonas. ‘You’re all alive this morning.’
‘Alive!’ the other stammered, as he pulled the bell-rope violently. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘It’s your room to be sure,’ said Jonas; ‘but I’m almost inclined to ask you what YOU are doing here? My room is on the other side of that door. No one told me last night not to open it. I thought it led into a passage, and was coming out to order breakfast. There’s —there’s no bell in my room.’
Montague had in the meantime admitted the man with his hot water and boots, who hearing this, said, yes, there was; and passed into the adjoining room to point it out, at the head of the bed.
‘I couldn’t find it, then,’ said Jonas; ‘it’s all the same. Shall I order breakfast?’
Montague answered in the affirmative. When Jonas had retired, whistling, through his own room, he opened the door of communication, to take out the key and fasten it on the inner side. But it was taken out already.
He dragged a table against the door, and sat down to collect himself, as if his dreams still had some influence upon his mind.
‘An evil journey,’ he repeated several times. ‘An evil journey. But I’ll travel home alone. I’ll have no more of this.’
His presentiment, or superstition, that it was an evil journey, did not at all deter him from doing the evil for which the journey was undertaken. With this in view, he dressed himself more carefully than usual to make a favourable impression on Mr Pecksniff; and, reassured by his own appearance, the beauty of the morning, and the flashing of the wet boughs outside his window in the merry sunshine, was soon sufficiently inspirited to swear a few round oaths, and hum the fag-end of a song.
But he still muttered to himself at intervals, for all that: ‘I’ll travel home alone!’
HAS AN INFLUENCE ON THE FORTUNES OF SEVERAL PEOPLE. MR PECKSNIFF IS EXHIBITED IN THE PLENITUDE OF POWER; AND WIELDS THE SAME WITH FORTITUDE AND MAGNANIMITY
On the night of the storm, Mrs Lupin, hostess of the Blue Dragon, sat by herself in her little bar. Her solitary condition, or the bad weather, or both united, made Mrs Lupin thoughtful, not to say sorrowful. As she sat with her chin upon her hand, looking out through a low back lattice, rendered dim in the brightest day-time by clustering vine-leaves, she shook her head very often, and said, ‘Dear me! Oh, dear, dear me!’
It was a melancholy time, even in the snugness of the Dragon bar. The rich expanse of corn-field, pasture-land, green slope, and gentle undulation, with its sparkling brooks, its many hedgerows, and its clumps of beautiful trees, was black and dreary, from the diamond panes of the lattice away to the far horizon, where the thunder seemed to roll along the hills. The heavy rain beat down the tender branches of vine and jessamine, and trampled on them in its fury; and when the lightning gleamed it showed the tearful leaves shivering and cowering together at the window, and tapping at it urgently, as if beseeching to be sheltered from the dismal night.
As a mark of her respect for the lightning, Mrs Lupin had removed her candle to the chimney-piece. Her basket of needle-work stood unheeded at her elbow; her supper, spread on a round table not far off, was untasted; and the knives had been removed for fear of attraction. She had sat for a long time with her chin upon her hand, saying to herself at intervals, ‘Dear me! Ah, dear, dear me!’
She was on the eve of saying so, once more, when the latch of the house-door (closed to keep the rain out), rattled on its well-worn catch, and a traveller came in, who, shutting it after him, and walking straight up to the half-door of the bar, said, rather gruffly:
‘A pint of the best old beer here.’
He had some reason to be gruff, for if he had passed the day in a waterfall, he could scarcely have been wetter than he was. He was wrapped up to the eyes in a rough blue sailor’s coat, and had an oilskin hat on, from the capacious brim of which the rain fell trickling down upon his breast, and back, and shoulders. Judging from a certain liveliness of chin—he had so pulled down his hat, and pulled up his collar, to defend himself from the weather, that she could only see his chin, and even across that he drew the wet sleeve of his shaggy coat, as she looked at him—Mrs Lupin set him down for a good-natured fellow, too.
‘A bad night!’ observed the hostess cheerfully.
The traveller shook himself like a Newfoundland dog, and said it was, rather.
‘There’s a fire in the kitchen,’ said Mrs Lupin, ‘and very good company there. Hadn’t you better go and dry yourself?’
‘No, thankee,’ said the man, glancing towards the kitchen as he spoke; he seemed to know the way.
‘It’s enough to give you your death of cold,’ observed the hostess.
‘I don’t take my death easy,’ returned the traveller; ‘or I should most likely have took it afore tonight. Your health, ma’am!’
Mrs Lupin thanked him; but in the act of lifting the tankard to his mouth, he changed his mind, and put it down again. Throwing his body back, and looking about him stiffly, as a man does who is wrapped up, and has his hat low down over his eyes, he said:
‘What do you call this house? Not the Dragon, do you?’
Mrs Lupin complacently made answer, ‘Yes, the Dragon.’
‘Why, then, you’ve got a sort of a relation of mine here, ma’am,’ said the traveller; ‘a young man of the name of Tapley. What! Mark, my boy!’ apostrophizing the premises, ‘have I come upon you at last, old buck!’
This was touching Mrs Lupin on a tender point. She turned to trim the candle on the chimney-piece, and said, with her back towards the traveller:
‘Nobody should be made more welcome at the Dragon, master, than any one who brought me news of Mark. But it’s many and many a long day and month since he left here and England. And whether he’s alive or dead, poor fellow, Heaven above us only knows!’
She shook her head, and her voice trembled; her hand must have done so too, for the light required a deal of trimming.
‘Where did he go, ma’am?’ asked the traveller, in a gentler voice.
‘He went,’ said Mrs Lupin, with increased distress, ‘to America. He was always tender-hearted and kind, and perhaps at this moment may be lying in prison under sentence of death, for taking pity on some miserable black, and helping the poor runaway creetur to escape. How could he ever go to America! Why didn’t he go to some of those countries where the savages eat each other fairly, and give an equal chance to every one!’
Quite subdued by this time, Mrs Lupin sobbed, and was retiring to a chair to give her grief free vent, when the traveller caught her in his arms, and she uttered a glad cry of recognition.
‘Yes, I will!’ cried Mark, ‘another—one more—twenty more! You didn’t know me in that hat and coat? I thought you would have known me anywheres! Ten more!’
‘So I should have known you, if I could have seen you; but I couldn’t, and you spoke so gruff. I didn’t think you could speak gruff to me, Mark, at first coming back.’
‘Fifteen more!’ said Mr Tapley. ‘How handsome and how young you look! Six more! The last half-dozen warn’t a fair one, and must be done over again. Lord bless you, what a treat it is to see you! One more! Well, I never was so jolly. Just a few more, on account of there not being any credit in it!’
When Mr Tapley stopped in these calculations in simple addition, he did it, not because he was at all tired of the exercise, but because he was out of breath. The pause reminded him of other duties.
‘Mr Martin Chuzzlewit’s outside,’ he said. ‘I left him under the cartshed, while I came on to see if there was anybody here. We want to keep quiet tonight, till we know the news from you, and what it’s best for us to do.’
‘There’s not a soul in the house, except the kitchen company,’ returned the hostess. ‘If they were to know you had come back, Mark, they’d have a bonfire in the street, late as it is.’
‘But they mustn’t know it tonight, my precious soul,’ said Mark; ‘so have the house shut, and the kitchen fire made up; and when it’s all ready, put a light in the winder, and we’ll come in. One more! I long to hear about old friends. You’ll tell me all about ‘em, won’t you; Mr Pinch, and the butcher’s dog down the street, and the terrier over the way, and the wheelwright’s, and every one of ‘em. When I first caught sight of the church tonight, I thought the steeple would have choked me, I did. One more! Won’t you? Not a very little one to finish off with?’
‘You have had plenty, I am sure,’ said the hostess. ‘Go along with your foreign manners!’
‘That ain’t foreign, bless you!’ cried Mark. ‘Native as oysters, that is! One more, because it’s native! As a mark of respect for the land we live in! This don’t count as between you and me, you understand,’ said Mr Tapley. ‘I ain’t a-kissing you now, you’ll observe. I have been among the patriots; I’m a-kissin’ my country.’
It would have been very unreasonable to complain of the exhibition of his patriotism with which he followed up this explanation, that it was at all lukewarm or indifferent. When he had given full expression to his nationality, he hurried off to Martin; while Mrs Lupin,
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