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Full Online Book HomeLong StoriesMartin Chuzzlewit - Chapter TWENTY-NINE
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Martin Chuzzlewit - Chapter TWENTY-NINE Post by :pkukic Category :Long Stories Author :Charles Dickens Date :January 2011 Read :2320

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Martin Chuzzlewit - Chapter TWENTY-NINE


It may have been the restless remembrance of what he had seen and

heard overnight, or it may have been no deeper mental operation than

the discovery that he had nothing to do, which caused Mr Bailey, on

the following afternoon, to feel particularly disposed for agreeable

society, and prompted him to pay a visit to his friend Poll



On the little bell giving clamorous notice of a visitor's approach

(for Mr Bailey came in at the door with a lunge, to get as much

sound out of the bell as possible), Poll Sweedlepipe desisted from

the contemplation of a favourite owl, and gave his young friend

hearty welcome.


'Why, you look smarter by day,' said Poll, 'than you do by candle-

light. I never see such a tight young dasher.'


'Reether so, Polly. How's our fair friend, Sairah?'


'Oh, she's pretty well,' said Poll. 'She's at home.'


'There's the remains of a fine woman about Sairah, Poll,' observed

Mr Bailey, with genteel indifference.


'Oh!' thought Poll, 'he's old. He must be very old!'


'Too much crumb, you know,' said Mr Bailey; 'too fat, Poll. But

there's many worse at her time of life'


'The very owl's a-opening his eyes!' thought Poll. 'I don't wonder

at it in a bird of his opinions.'


He happened to have been sharpening his razors, which were lying

open in a row, while a huge strop dangled from the wall. Glancing

at these preparations, Mr Bailey stroked his chin, and a thought

appeared to occur to him.


'Poll,' he said, 'I ain't as neat as I could wish about the gills.

Being here, I may as well have a shave, and get trimmed close.'


The barber stood aghast; but Mr Bailey divested himself of his neck-

cloth, and sat down in the easy shaving chair with all the dignity

and confidence in life. There was no resisting his manner. The

evidence of sight and touch became as nothing. His chin was as

smooth as a new-laid egg or a scraped Dutch cheese; but Poll

Sweedlepipe wouldn't have ventured to deny, on affidavit, that he

had the beard of a Jewish rabbi.


'Go WITH the grain, Poll, all round, please,' said Mr Bailey,

screwing up his face for the reception of the lather. 'You may do

wot you like with the bits of whisker. I don't care for 'em.'


The meek little barber stood gazing at him with the brush and soap-

dish in his hand, stirring them round and round in a ludicrous

uncertainty, as if he were disabled by some fascination from

beginning. At last he made a dash at Mr Bailey's cheek. Then he

stopped again, as if the ghost of a beard had suddenly receded from

his touch; but receiving mild encouragement from Mr Bailey, in the

form of an adjuration to 'Go in and win,' he lathered him

bountifully. Mr Bailey smiled through the suds in his satisfaction.

'Gently over the stones, Poll. Go a tip-toe over the pimples!'


Poll Sweedlepipe obeyed, and scraped the lather off again with

particular care. Mr Bailey squinted at every successive dab, as it

was deposited on a cloth on his left shoulder, and seemed, with a

microscopic eye, to detect some bristles in it; for he murmured more

than once 'Reether redder than I could wish, Poll.' The operation

being concluded, Poll fell back and stared at him again, while Mr

Bailey, wiping his face on the jack-towel, remarked, 'that arter

late hours nothing freshened up a man so much as a easy shave.'


He was in the act of tying his cravat at the glass, without his

coat, and Poll had wiped his razor, ready for the next customer,

when Mrs Gamp, coming downstairs, looked in at the shop-door to

give the barber neighbourly good day. Feeling for her unfortunate

situation, in having conceived a regard for himself which it was not

in the nature of things that he could return, Mr Bailey hastened to

soothe her with words of kindness.


'Hallo!' he said, 'Sairah! I needn't ask you how you've been this

long time, for you're in full bloom. All a-blowin and a-growin;

ain't she, Polly?'


'Why, drat the Bragian boldness of that boy!' cried Mrs Gamp, though

not displeased. 'What a imperent young sparrow it is! I wouldn't be

that creetur's mother not for fifty pound!'


Mr Bailey regarded this as a delicate confession of her attachment,

and a hint that no pecuniary gain could recompense her for its being

rendered hopeless. He felt flattered. Disinterested affection is

always flattering.


'Ah, dear!' moaned Mrs Gamp, sinking into the shaving chair, 'that

there blessed Bull, Mr Sweedlepipe, has done his wery best to conker

me. Of all the trying inwalieges in this walley of the shadder,

that one beats 'em black and blue.'


It was the practice of Mrs Gamp and her friends in the profession,

to say this of all the easy customers; as having at once the effect

of discouraging competitors for office, and accounting for the

necessity of high living on the part of the nurses.


'Talk of constitooshun!' Mrs Gamp observed. 'A person's

constitooshun need be made of bricks to stand it. Mrs Harris jestly

says to me, but t'other day, "Oh! Sairey Gamp," she says, "how is it

done?" "Mrs Harris, ma'am," I says to her, "we gives no trust

ourselves, and puts a deal o'trust elsevere; these is our religious

feelins, and we finds 'em answer." "Sairey," says Mrs Harris, "sech

is life. Vich likeways is the hend of all things!"'


The barber gave a soft murmur, as much as to say that Mrs Harris's

remark, though perhaps not quite so intelligible as could be desired

from such an authority, did equal honour to her head and to her



'And here,' continued Mrs Gamp, 'and here am I a-goin twenty mile in

distant, on as wentersome a chance as ever any one as monthlied ever

run, I do believe. Says Mrs Harris, with a woman's and a mother's

art a-beatin in her human breast, she says to me, "You're not a-

goin, Sairey, Lord forgive you!" "Why am I not a-goin, Mrs Harris?"

I replies. "Mrs Gill," I says, "wos never wrong with six; and is it

likely, ma'am--I ast you as a mother--that she will begin to be

unreg'lar now? Often and often have I heerd him say," I says to Mrs

Harris, meaning Mr Gill, "that he would back his wife agen Moore's

almanack, to name the very day and hour, for ninepence farden. IS

it likely, ma'am," I says, "as she will fail this once?" Says Mrs

Harris "No, ma'am, not in the course of natur. But," she says, the

tears a-fillin in her eyes, "you knows much betterer than me, with

your experienge, how little puts us out. A Punch's show," she says,

"a chimbley sweep, a newfundlan dog, or a drunkin man a-comin round

the corner sharp may do it." So it may, Mr Sweedlepipes,' said Mrs

Gamp, 'there's no deniging of it; and though my books is clear for a

full week, I takes a anxious art along with me, I do assure you,



'You're so full of zeal, you see!' said Poll. 'You worrit yourself



'Worrit myself!' cried Mrs Gamp, raising her hands and turning up

her eyes. 'You speak truth in that, sir, if you never speaks no

more 'twixt this and when two Sundays jines together. I feels the

sufferins of other people more than I feels my own, though no one

mayn't suppoge it. The families I've had,' said Mrs Gamp, 'if all

was knowd and credit done where credit's doo, would take a week to

chris'en at Saint Polge's fontin!'


'Where's the patient goin?' asked Sweedlepipe.


'Into Har'fordshire, which is his native air. But native airs nor

native graces neither,' Mrs Gamp observed, 'won't bring HIM round.'


'So bad as that?' inquired the wistful barber. 'Indeed!'


Mrs Gamp shook her head mysteriously, and pursed up her lips.

'There's fevers of the mind,' she said, 'as well as body. You may

take your slime drafts till you files into the air with

efferwescence; but you won't cure that.'


'Ah!' said the barber, opening his eyes, and putting on his raven

aspect; 'Lor!'


'No. You may make yourself as light as any gash balloon,' said Mrs

Gamp. 'But talk, when you're wrong in your head and when you're in

your sleep, of certain things; and you'll be heavy in your mind.'


'Of what kind of things now?' inquired Poll, greedily biting his

nails in his great interest. 'Ghosts?'


Mrs Gamp, who perhaps had been already tempted further than she had

intended to go, by the barber's stimulating curiosity, gave a sniff

of uncommon significance, and said, it didn't signify.


'I'm a-goin down with my patient in the coach this arternoon,' she

proceeded. 'I'm a-goin to stop with him a day or so, till he gets a

country nuss (drat them country nusses, much the orkard hussies

knows about their bis'ness); and then I'm a-comin back; and that's

my trouble, Mr Sweedlepipes. But I hope that everythink'll only go

on right and comfortable as long as I'm away; perwisin which, as Mrs

Harris says, Mrs Gill is welcome to choose her own time; all times

of the day and night bein' equally the same to me.'


During the progress of the foregoing remarks, which Mrs Gamp had

addressed exclusively to the barber, Mr Bailey had been tying his

cravat, getting on his coat, and making hideous faces at himself in

the glass. Being now personally addressed by Mrs Gamp, he turned

round, and mingled in the conversation.


'You ain't been in the City, I suppose, sir, since we was all three

there together,' said Mrs Gamp, 'at Mr Chuzzlewit's?'


'Yes, I have, Sairah. I was there last night.'


'Last night!' cried the barber.


'Yes, Poll, reether so. You can call it this morning, if you like

to be particular. He dined with us.'


'Who does that young Limb mean by "hus?"' said Mrs Gamp, with most

impatient emphasis.


'Me and my Governor, Sairah. He dined at our house. We wos very

merry, Sairah. So much so, that I was obliged to see him home in a

hackney coach at three o'clock in the morning.' It was on the tip of

the boy's tongue to relate what had followed; but remembering how

easily it might be carried to his master's ears, and the repeated

cautions he had had from Mr Crimple 'not to chatter,' he checked

himself; adding, only, 'She was sitting up, expecting him.'


'And all things considered,' said Mrs Gamp sharply, 'she might have

know'd better than to go a-tirin herself out, by doin' anythink of

the sort. Did they seem pretty pleasant together, sir?'


'Oh, yes,' answered Bailey, 'pleasant enough.'


'I'm glad on it,' said Mrs Gamp, with a second sniff of significance.


'They haven't been married so long,' observed Poll, rubbing his

hands, 'that they need be anything but pleasant yet awhile.'


'No,' said Mrs Gamp, with a third significant signal.


'Especially,' pursued the barber, 'when the gentleman bears such a

character as you gave him.'


'I speak; as I find, Mr Sweedlepipes,' said Mrs Gamp. 'Forbid it

should be otherways! But we never knows wot's hidden in each other's

hearts; and if we had glass winders there, we'd need keep the

shetters up, some on us, I do assure you!'


'But you don't mean to say--' Poll Sweedlepipe began.


'No,' said Mrs Gamp, cutting him very short, 'I don't. Don't think

I do. The torters of the Imposition shouldn't make me own I did.

All I says is,' added the good woman, rising and folding her shawl

about her, 'that the Bull's a-waitin, and the precious moments is

a-flyin' fast.'


The little barber having in his eager curiosity a great desire to

see Mrs Gamp's patient, proposed to Mr Bailey that they should

accompany her to the Bull, and witness the departure of the coach.

That young gentleman assenting, they all went out together.


Arriving at the tavern, Mrs Gamp (who was full-dressed for the

journey, in her latest suit of mourning) left her friends to

entertain themselves in the yard, while she ascended to the sick

room, where her fellow-labourer Mrs Prig was dressing the invalid.


He was so wasted, that it seemed as if his bones would rattle when

they moved him. His cheeks were sunken, and his eyes unnaturally

large. He lay back in the easy-chair like one more dead than

living; and rolled his languid eyes towards the door when Mrs Gamp

appeared, as painfully as if their weight alone were burdensome to



'And how are we by this time?' Mrs Gamp observed. 'We looks



'We looks a deal charminger than we are, then,' returned Mrs Prig, a

little chafed in her temper. 'We got out of bed back'ards, I think,

for we're as cross as two sticks. I never see sich a man. He

wouldn't have been washed, if he'd had his own way.'


'She put the soap in my mouth,' said the unfortunate patient feebly.


'Couldn't you keep it shut then?' retorted Mrs Prig. 'Who do you

think's to wash one feater, and miss another, and wear one's eyes

out with all manner of fine work of that description, for half-a-

crown a day! If you wants to be tittivated, you must pay accordin'.'


'Oh dear me!' cried the patient, 'oh dear, dear!'


'There!' said Mrs Prig, 'that's the way he's been a-conductin of

himself, Sarah, ever since I got him out of bed, if you'll believe



'Instead of being grateful,' Mrs Gamp observed, 'for all our little

ways. Oh, fie for shame, sir, fie for shame!'


Here Mrs Prig seized the patient by the chin, and began to rasp his

unhappy head with a hair-brush.


'I suppose you don't like that, neither!' she observed, stopping to

look at him.


It was just possible that he didn't for the brush was a specimen of

the hardest kind of instrument producible by modern art; and his

very eyelids were red with the friction. Mrs Prig was gratified to

observe the correctness of her supposition, and said triumphantly

'she know'd as much.'


When his hair was smoothed down comfortably into his eyes, Mrs Prig

and Mrs Gamp put on his neckerchief; adjusting his shirt collar with

great nicety, so that the starched points should also invade those

organs, and afflict them with an artificial ophthalmia. His

waistcoat and coat were next arranged; and as every button was

wrenched into a wrong button-hole, and the order of his boots was

reversed, he presented on the whole rather a melancholy appearance.


'I don't think it's right,' said the poor weak invalid. 'I feel as

if I was in somebody else's clothes. I'm all on one side; and

you've made one of my legs shorter than the other. There's a bottle

in my pocket too. What do you make me sit upon a bottle for?'


'Deuce take the man!' cried Mrs Gamp, drawing it forth. 'If he

ain't been and got my night-bottle here. I made a little cupboard

of his coat when it hung behind the door, and quite forgot it,

Betsey. You'll find a ingun or two, and a little tea and sugar in

his t'other pocket, my dear, if you'll just be good enough to take

'em out.'


Betsey produced the property in question, together with some other

articles of general chandlery; and Mrs Gamp transferred them to her

own pocket, which was a species of nankeen pannier. Refreshment

then arrived in the form of chops and strong ale for the ladies, and

a basin of beef-tea for the patient; which refection was barely at

an end when John Westlock appeared.


'Up and dressed!' cried John, sitting down beside him. 'That's

brave. How do you feel?'


'Much better. But very weak.'


'No wonder. You have had a hard bout of it. But country air, and

change of scene,' said John, 'will make another man of you! Why, Mrs

Gamp,' he added, laughing, as he kindly arranged the sick man's

garments, 'you have odd notions of a gentleman's dress!'


'Mr Lewsome an't a easy gent to get into his clothes, sir,' Mrs Gamp

replied with dignity; 'as me and Betsey Prig can certify afore the

Lord Mayor and Uncommon Counsellors, if needful!'


John at that moment was standing close in front of the sick man, in

the act of releasing him from the torture of the collars before

mentioned, when he said in a whisper:


'Mr Westlock! I don't wish to be overheard. I have something very

particular and strange to say to you; something that has been a

dreadful weight on my mind, through this long illness.'


Quick in all his motions, John was turning round to desire the women

to leave the room; when the sick man held him by the sleeve.


'Not now. I've not the strength. I've not the courage. May I tell

it when I have? May I write it, if I find that easier and better?'


'May you!' cried John. 'Why, Lewsome, what is this!'


'Don't ask me what it is. It's unnatural and cruel. Frightful to

think of. Frightful to tell. Frightful to know. Frightful to have

helped in. Let me kiss your hand for all your goodness to me. Be

kinder still, and don't ask me what it is!'


At first, John gazed at him in great surprise; but remembering how

very much reduced he was, and how recently his brain had been on

fire with fever, believed that he was labouring under some imaginary

horror or despondent fancy. For farther information on this point,

he took an opportunity of drawing Mrs Gamp aside, while Betsey Prig

was wrapping him in cloaks and shawls, and asked her whether he was

quite collected in his mind.


'Oh bless you, no!' said Mrs Gamp. 'He hates his nusses to this

hour. They always does it, sir. It's a certain sign. If you could

have heerd the poor dear soul a-findin fault with me and Betsey

Prig, not half an hour ago, you would have wondered how it is we

don't get fretted to the tomb.'


This almost confirmed John in his suspicion; so, not taking what had

passed into any serious account, he resumed his former cheerful

manner, and assisted by Mrs Gamp and Betsey Prig, conducted Lewsome

downstairs to the coach; just then upon the point of starting.

Poll Sweedlepipe was at the door with his arms tight folded and his

eyes wide open, and looked on with absorbing interest, while the

sick man was slowly moved into the vehicle. His bony hands and

haggard face impressed Poll wonderfully; and he informed Mr Bailey

in confidence, that he wouldn't have missed seeing him for a pound.

Mr Bailey, who was of a different constitution, remarked that he

would have stayed away for five shillings.


It was a troublesome matter to adjust Mrs Gamp's luggage to her

satisfaction; for every package belonging to that lady had the

inconvenient property of requiring to be put in a boot by itself,

and to have no other luggage near it, on pain of actions at law for

heavy damages against the proprietors of the coach. The umbrella

with the circular patch was particularly hard to be got rid of, and

several times thrust out its battered brass nozzle from improper

crevices and chinks, to the great terror of the other passengers.

Indeed, in her intense anxiety to find a haven of refuge for this

chattel, Mrs Gamp so often moved it, in the course of five minutes,

that it seemed not one umbrella but fifty. At length it was lost,

or said to be; and for the next five minutes she was face to face

with the coachman, go wherever he might, protesting that it should

be 'made good,' though she took the question to the House of



At last, her bundle, and her pattens, and her basket, and

everything else, being disposed of, she took a friendly leave of

Poll and Mr Bailey, dropped a curtsey to John Westlock, and parted

as from a cherished member of the sisterhood with Betsey Prig.


'Wishin you lots of sickness, my darlin creetur,' Mrs Gamp observed,

'and good places. It won't be long, I hope, afore we works

together, off and on, again, Betsey; and may our next meetin' be at

a large family's, where they all takes it reg'lar, one from another,

turn and turn about, and has it business-like.'


'I don't care how soon it is,' said Mrs Prig; 'nor how many weeks it



Mrs Gamp with a reply in a congenial spirit was backing to the

coach, when she came in contact with a lady and gentleman who were

passing along the footway.


'Take care, take care here!' cried the gentleman. 'Halloo!

My dear! Why, it's Mrs Gamp!'


'What, Mr Mould!' exclaimed the nurse. 'And Mrs Mould! who would

have thought as we should ever have a meetin' here, I'm sure!'


'Going out of town, Mrs Gamp?' cried Mould. 'That's unusual, isn't



'It IS unusual, sir,' said Mrs Gamp. 'But only for a day or two at

most. The gent,' she whispered, 'as I spoke about.'


'What, in the coach!' cried Mould. 'The one you thought of

recommending? Very odd. My dear, this will interest you. The

gentleman that Mrs Gamp thought likely to suit us is in the coach,

my love.'


Mrs Mould was greatly interested.


'Here, my dear. You can stand upon the door-step,' said Mould, 'and

take a look at him. Ha! There he is. Where's my glass? Oh! all

right. I've got it. Do you see him, my dear?'


'Quite plain,' said Mrs Mould.


'Upon my life, you know, this is a very singular circumstance,' said

Mould, quite delighted. 'This is the sort of thing, my dear, I

wouldn't have missed on any account. It tickles one. It's

interesting. It's almost a little play, you know. Ah! There

he is! To be sure. Looks poorly, Mrs M., don't he?'


Mrs Mould assented.


'He's coming our way, perhaps, after all,' said Mould. 'Who knows!

I feel as if I ought to show him some little attention, really. He

don't seem a stranger to me. I'm very much inclined to move my hat,

my dear.'


'He's looking hard this way,' said Mrs Mould.


'Then I will!' cried Mould. 'How d'ye do, sir! I wish you good day.

Ha! He bows too. Very gentlemanly. Mrs Gamp has the cards in her

pocket, I have no doubt. This is very singular, my dear--and very

pleasant. I am not superstitious, but it really seems as if one was

destined to pay him those little melancholy civilities which belong

to our peculiar line of business. There can be no kind of objection

to your kissing your hand to him, my dear.'


Mrs Mould did so.


'Ha!' said Mould. 'He's evidently gratified. Poor fellow! I am

quite glad you did it, my love. Bye bye, Mrs Gamp!' waving his

hand. 'There he goes; there he goes!'


So he did; for the coach rolled off as the words were spoken. Mr

and Mrs Mould, in high good humour, went their merry way. Mr Bailey

retired with Poll Sweedlepipe as soon as possible; but some little

time elapsed before he could remove his friend from the ground,

owing to the impression wrought upon the barber's nerves by Mrs

Prig, whom he pronounced, in admiration of her beard, to be a woman

of transcendent charms.


When the light cloud of bustle hanging round the coach was thus

dispersed, Nadgett was seen in the darkest box of the Bull coffee-

room, looking wistfully up at the clock--as if the man who never

appeared were a little behind his time.

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