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
‘Wishing you appiness and joy with all my art,’ said Mrs Gamp, dropping a curtsey as they entered the hall; ‘and you, too, sir. Your lady looks a little tired with the journey, Mr Chuzzlewit, a pretty dear!’
‘She has bothered enough about it,’ grumbled Mr Jonas. ‘Now, show a light, will you?’
‘This way, ma’am, if you please,’ said Mrs Gamp, going upstairs before them. ‘Things has been made as comfortable as they could be, but there’s many things you’ll have to alter your own self when you gets time to look about you! Ah! sweet thing! But you don’t,’ added Mrs Gamp, internally, ‘you don’t look much like a merry one, I must say!’
It was true; she did not. The death that had gone before the bridal seemed to have left its shade upon the house. The air was heavy and oppressive; the rooms were dark; a deep gloom filled up every chink and corner. Upon the hearthstone, like a creature of ill omen, sat the aged clerk, with his eyes fixed on some withered branches in the stove. He rose and looked at her.
‘So there you are, Mr Chuff,’ said Jonas carelessly, as he dusted his boots; ‘still in the land of the living, eh?’
‘Still in the land of the living, sir,’ retorted Mrs Gamp. ‘And Mr Chuffey may thank you for it, as many and many a time I’ve told him.’
Mr Jonas was not in the best of humours, for he merely said, as he looked round, ‘We don’t want you any more, you know, Mrs Gamp.’
‘I’m a-going immediate, sir,’ returned the nurse; ‘unless there’s nothink I can do for you, ma’am. Ain’t there,’ said Mrs Gamp, with a look of great sweetness, and rummaging all the time in her pocket; ‘ain’t there nothink I can do for you, my little bird?’
‘No,’ said Merry, almost crying. ‘You had better go away, please!’
With a leer of mingled sweetness and slyness; with one eye on the future, one on the bride, and an arch expression in her face, partly spiritual, partly spirituous, and wholly professional and peculiar to her art; Mrs Gamp rummaged in her pocket again, and took from it a printed card, whereon was an inscription copied from her signboard.
‘Would you be so good, my darling dovey of a dear young married lady,’ Mrs Gamp observed, in a low voice, ‘as put that somewheres where you can keep it in your mind? I’m well beknown to many ladies, and it’s my card. Gamp is my name, and Gamp my nater. Livin’ quite handy, I will make so bold as call in now and then, and make inquiry how your health and spirits is, my precious chick!’
And with innumerable leers, winks, coughs, nods, smiles, and curtseys, all leading to the establishment of a mysterious and confidential understanding between herself and the bride, Mrs Gamp, invoking a blessing upon the house, leered, winked, coughed, nodded, smiled, and curtseyed herself out of the room.
‘But I will say, and I would if I was led a Martha to the Stakes for it,’ Mrs Gamp remarked below stairs, in a whisper, ‘that she don’t look much like a merry one at this present moment of time.’
‘Ah! wait till you hear her laugh!’ said Bailey.
‘Hem!’ cried Mrs Gamp, in a kind of groan. ‘I will, child.’
They said no more in the house, for Mrs Gamp put on her bonnet, Mr Sweedlepipe took up her box; and Mr Bailey accompanied them towards Kingsgate Street; recounting to Mrs Gamp as they went along, the origin and progress of his acquaintance with Mrs Chuzzlewit and her sister. It was a pleasant instance of this youth’s precocity, that he fancied Mrs Gamp had conceived a tenderness for him, and was much tickled by her misplaced attachment.
As the door closed heavily behind them, Mrs Jonas sat down in a chair, and felt a strange chill creep upon her, whilst she looked about the room. It was pretty much as she had known it, but appeared more dreary. She had thought to see it brightened to receive her.
‘It ain’t good enough for you, I suppose?’ said Jonas, watching her looks.
‘Why, it IS dull,’ said Merry, trying to be more herself.
‘It’ll be duller before you’re done with it,’ retorted Jonas, ‘if you give me any of your airs. You’re a nice article, to turn sulky on first coming home! Ecod, you used to have life enough, when you could plague me with it. The gal’s downstairs. Ring the bell for supper, while I take my boots off!’
She roused herself from looking after him as he left the room, to do what he had desired; when the old man Chuffey laid his hand softly on her arm.
‘You are not married?’ he said eagerly. ‘Not married?’
‘Yes. A month ago. Good Heaven, what is the matter?’
He answered nothing was the matter; and turned from her. But in her fear and wonder, turning also, she saw him raise his trembling hands above his head, and heard him say:
‘Oh! woe, woe, woe, upon this wicked house!’
It was her welcome—HOME.
SHOWING THAT OLD FRIENDS MAY NOT ONLY APPEAR WITH NEW FACES, BUT IN FALSE COLOURS. THAT PEOPLE ARE PRONE TO BITE, AND THAT BITERS MAY SOMETIMES BE BITTEN.
Mr Bailey, Junior—for the sporting character, whilom of general utility at Todgers’s, had now regularly set up in life under that name, without troubling himself to obtain from the legislature a direct licence in the form of a Private Bill, which of all kinds and classes of bills is without exception the most unreasonable in its charges—Mr Bailey, Junior, just tall enough to be seen by an inquiring eye, gazing indolently at society from beneath the apron of his master’s cab, drove slowly up and down Pall Mall, about the hour of noon, in waiting for his ‘Governor.’ The horse of distinguished family, who had Capricorn for his nephew, and Cauliflower for his brother, showed himself worthy of his high relations by champing at the bit until his chest was white with foam, and rearing like a horse in heraldry; the plated harness and the patent leather glittered in the sun; pedestrians admired; Mr Bailey was complacent, but unmoved. He seemed to say, ‘A barrow, good people, a mere barrow; nothing to what we could do, if we chose!’ and on he went, squaring his short green arms outside the apron, as if he were hooked on to it by his armpits.
Mr Bailey had a great opinion of Brother to Cauliflower, and estimated his powers highly. But he never told him so. On the contrary, it was his practice, in driving that animal, to assail him with disrespectful, if not injurious, expressions, as, ‘Ah! would you!’ ‘Did you think it, then?’ ‘Where are you going to now?’ ‘No, you won’t, my lad!’ and similar fragmentary remarks. These being usually accompanied by a jerk of the rein, or a crack of the whip, led to many trials of strength between them, and to many contentions for the upper-hand, terminating, now and then, in china-shops, and other unusual goals, as Mr Bailey had already hinted to his friend Poll Sweedlepipe.
On the present occasion Mr Bailey, being in spirits, was more than commonly hard upon his charge; in consequence of which that fiery animal confined himself almost entirely to his hind legs in displaying his paces, and constantly got himself into positions with reference to the cabriolet that very much amazed the passengers in the street. But Mr Bailey, not at all disturbed, had still a shower of pleasantries to bestow on any one who crossed his path; as, calling to a full-grown coal-heaver in a wagon, who for a moment blocked the way, ‘Now, young ‘un, who trusted YOU with a cart?’ inquiring of elderly ladies who wanted to cross, and ran back again, ‘Why they didn’t go to the workhouse and get an order to be buried?’ tempting boys, with friendly words, to get up behind, and immediately afterwards cutting them down; and the like flashes of a cheerful humour, which he would occasionally relieve by going round St. James’s Square at a hand gallop, and coming slowly into Pall Mall by another entry, as if, in the interval, his pace had been a perfect crawl.
It was not until these amusements had been very often repeated, and the apple-stall at the corner had sustained so many miraculous escapes as to appear impregnable, that Mr Bailey was summoned to the door of a certain house in Pall Mall, and turning short, obeyed the call and jumped out. It was not until he had held the bridle for some minutes longer, every jerk of Cauliflower’s brother’s head, and every twitch of Cauliflower’s brother’s nostril, taking him off his legs in the meanwhile, that two persons entered the vehicle, one of whom took the reins and drove rapidly off. Nor was it until Mr Bailey had run after it some hundreds of yards in vain, that he managed to lift his short leg into the iron step, and finally to get his boots upon the little footboard behind. Then, indeed, he became a sight to see; and—standing now on one foot and now upon the other, now trying to look round the cab on this side, now on that, and now endeavouring to peep over the top of it, as it went dashing in among the carts and coaches—was from head to heel Newmarket.
The appearance of Mr Bailey’s governor as he drove along fully justified that enthusiastic youth’s description of him to the wondering Poll. He had a world of jet-black shining hair upon his head, upon his cheeks, upon his chin, upon his upper lip. His clothes, symmetrically made, were of the newest fashion and the costliest kind. Flowers of gold and blue, and green and blushing red, were on his waistcoat; precious chains and jewels sparkled on his breast; his fingers, clogged with brilliant rings, were as unwieldly as summer flies but newly rescued from a honey-pot. The daylight mantled in his gleaming hat and boots as in a polished glass. And yet, though changed his name, and changed his outward surface, it was Tigg. Though turned and twisted upside down, and inside out, as great men have been sometimes known to be; though no longer Montague Tigg, but Tigg Montague; still it was Tigg; the same Satanic, gallant, military Tigg. The brass was burnished, lacquered, newly stamped; yet it was the true Tigg metal notwithstanding.
Beside him sat a smiling gentleman, of less pretensions and of business looks, whom he addressed as David. Surely not the David of the—how shall it be phrased?—the triumvirate of golden balls? Not David, tapster at the Lombards’ Arms? Yes. The very man.
‘The secretary’s salary, David,’ said Mr Montague, ‘the office being now established, is eight hundred pounds per annum, with his house-rent, coals, and candles free. His five-and-twenty shares he holds, of course. Is that enough?’
David smiled and nodded, and coughed behind a little locked portfolio which he carried; with an air that proclaimed him to be the secretary in question.
‘If that’s enough,’ said Montague, ‘I will propose it at the Board to-day, in my capacity as chairman.’
The secretary smiled again; laughed, indeed, this time; and said, rubbing his nose slily with one end of the portfolio:
‘It was a capital thought, wasn’t it?’
‘What was a capital thought, David?’ Mr Montague inquired.
‘The Anglo-Bengalee,’ tittered the secretary.
‘The Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company is rather a capital concern, I hope, David,’ said Montague.
‘Capital indeed!’ cried the
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