Mr Pecksniff was in a hackney cabriolet, for Jonas Chuzzlewit had said ‘Spare no expense.’ Mankind is evil in its thoughts and in its base constructions, and Jonas was resolved it should not have an inch to stretch into an ell against him. It never should be charged upon his father’s son that he had grudged3 the money for his father’s funeral. Hence, until the obsequies should be concluded, Jonas had taken for his motto ‘Spend, and spare not!’
Mr Pecksniff had been to the undertaker, and was now upon his way to another officer in the train of mourning—a female functionary4, a nurse, and watcher, and performer of nameless offices about the persons of the dead—whom he had recommended. Her name, as Mr Pecksniff gathered from a scrap5 of writing in his hand, was Gamp; her residence in Kingsgate Street, High Holborn. So Mr Pecksniff, in a hackney cab, was rattling6 over Holborn stones, in quest of Mrs Gamp.
This lady lodged7 at a bird-fancier’s, next door but one to the celebrated8 mutton-pie shop, and directly opposite to the original cat’s-meat warehouse9; the renown10 of which establishments was duly heralded11 on their respective fronts. It was a little house, and this was the more convenient; for Mrs Gamp being, in her highest walk of art, a monthly nurse, or, as her sign-board boldly had it, ‘Midwife,’ and lodging12 in the first-floor front, was easily assailable13 at night by pebbles14, walking-sticks, and fragments of tobacco-pipe; all much more efficacious than the street-door knocker, which was so constructed as to wake the street with ease, and even spread alarms of fire in Holborn, without making the smallest impression on the premises15 to which it was addressed.
It chanced on this particular occasion, that Mrs Gamp had been up all the previous night, in attendance upon a ceremony to which the usage of gossips has given that name which expresses, in two syllables17, the curse pronounced on Adam. It chanced that Mrs Gamp had not been regularly engaged, but had been called in at a crisis, in consequence of her great repute, to assist another professional lady with her advice; and thus it happened that, all points of interest in the case being over, Mrs Gamp had come home again to the bird-fancier’s and gone to bed. So when Mr Pecksniff drove up in the hackney cab, Mrs Gamp’s curtains were drawn18 close, and Mrs Gamp was fast asleep behind them.
If the bird-fancier had been at home, as he ought to have been, there would have been no great harm in this; but he was out, and his shop was closed. The shutters19 were down certainly; and in every pane20 of glass there was at least one tiny bird in a tiny bird-cage, twittering and hopping21 his little ballet of despair, and knocking his head against the roof; while one unhappy goldfinch who lived outside a red villa22 with his name on the door, drew the water for his own drinking, and mutely appealed to some good man to drop a farthing’s-worth of poison in it. Still, the door was shut. Mr Pecksniff tried the latch23, and shook it, causing a cracked bell inside to ring most mournfully; but no one came. The bird-fancier was an easy shaver also, and a fashionable hair-dresser also, and perhaps he had been sent for, express, from the court end of the town, to trim a lord, or cut and curl a lady; but however that might be, there, upon his own ground, he was not; nor was there any more distinct trace of him to assist the imagination of an inquirer, than a professional print or emblem25 of his calling (much favoured in the trade), representing a hair-dresser of easy manners curling a lady of distinguished26 fashion, in the presence of a patent upright grand pianoforte.
Noting these circumstances, Mr Pecksniff, in the innocence27 of his heart, applied28 himself to the knocker; but at the first double knock every window in the street became alive with female heads; and before he could repeat the performance whole troops of married ladies (some about to trouble Mrs Gamp themselves very shortly) came flocking round the steps, all crying out with one accord, and with uncommon29 interest, ‘Knock at the winder, sir, knock at the winder. Lord bless you, don’t lose no more time than you can help—knock at the winder!’
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Acting30 upon this suggestion, and borrowing the driver’s whip for the purpose, Mr Pecksniff soon made a commotion31 among the first floor flower-pots, and roused Mrs Gamp, whose voice—to the great satisfaction of the matrons—was heard to say, ‘I’m coming.’
‘So he ought to be, if he’s the feelings of a man,’ observed another.
A third lady (with her arms folded) said she wished he had chosen any other time for fetching Mrs Gamp, but it always happened so with her.
It gave Mr Pecksniff much uneasiness to find, from these remarks, that he was supposed to have come to Mrs Gamp upon an errand touching—not the close of life, but the other end. Mrs Gamp herself was under the same impression, for, throwing open the window, she cried behind the curtains, as she hastily attired33 herself—
‘Is it Mrs Perkins?’
‘No!’ returned Mr Pecksniff, sharply. ‘Nothing of the sort.’
‘What, Mr Whilks!’ cried Mrs Gamp. ‘Don’t say it’s you, Mr Whilks, and that poor creetur Mrs Whilks with not even a pincushion ready. Don’t say it’s you, Mr Whilks!’
‘It isn’t Mr Whilks,’ said Pecksniff. ‘I don’t know the man. Nothing of the kind. A gentleman is dead; and some person being wanted in the house, you have been recommended by Mr Mould the undertaker.’
As she was by this time in a condition to appear, Mrs Gamp, who had a face for all occasions, looked out of the window with her mourning countenance34, and said she would be down directly. But the matrons took it very ill that Mr Pecksniff’s mission was of so unimportant a kind; and the lady with her arms folded rated him in good round terms, signifying that she would be glad to know what he meant by terrifying delicate females ‘with his corpses;’ and giving it as her opinion that he was quite ugly enough to know better. The other ladies were not at all behind-hand in expressing similar sentiments; and the children, of whom some scores had now collected, hooted35 and defied Mr Pecksniff quite savagely36. So when Mrs Gamp appeared, the unoffending gentleman was glad to hustle37 her with very little ceremony into the cabriolet, and drive off, overwhelmed with popular execration38.
Mrs Gamp had a large bundle with her, a pair of pattens, and a species of gig umbrella; the latter article in colour like a faded leaf, except where a circular patch of a lively blue had been dexterously39 let in at the top. She was much flurried by the haste she had made, and laboured under the most erroneous views of cabriolets, which she appeared to confound with mail-coaches or stage-wagons, inasmuch as she was constantly endeavouring for the first half mile to force her luggage through the little front window, and clamouring to the driver to ‘put it in the boot.’ When she was disabused40 of this idea, her whole being resolved itself into an absorbing anxiety about her pattens, with which she played innumerable games at quoits on Mr Pecksniff’s legs. It was not until they were close upon the house of mourning that she had enough composure to observe—
‘And so the gentleman’s dead, sir! Ah! The more’s the pity.’ She didn’t even know his name. ‘But it’s what we must all come to. It’s as certain as being born, except that we can’t make our calculations as exact. Ah! Poor dear!’
She was a fat old woman, this Mrs Gamp, with a husky voice and a moist eye, which she had a remarkable41 power of turning up, and only showing the white of it. Having very little neck, it cost her some trouble to look over herself, if one may say so, at those to whom she talked. She wore a very rusty42 black gown, rather the worse for snuff, and a shawl and bonnet43 to correspond. In these dilapidated articles of dress she had, on principle, arrayed herself, time out of mind, on such occasions as the present; for this at once expressed a decent amount of veneration44 for the deceased, and invited the next of kin2 to present her with a fresher suit of weeds; an appeal so frequently successful, that the very fetch and ghost of Mrs Gamp, bonnet and all, might be seen hanging up, any hour in the day, in at least a dozen of the second-hand45 clothes shops about Holborn. The face of Mrs Gamp—the nose in particular—was somewhat red and swollen46, and it was difficult to enjoy her society without becoming conscious of a smell of spirits. Like most persons who have attained47 to great eminence48 in their profession, she took to hers very kindly49; insomuch that, setting aside her natural predilections50 as a woman, she went to a lying-in or a laying-out with equal zest51 and relish52.
‘Ah!’ repeated Mrs Gamp; for it was always a safe sentiment in cases of mourning. ‘Ah dear! When Gamp was summoned to his long home, and I see him a-lying in Guy’s Hospital with a penny-piece on each eye, and his wooden leg under his left arm, I thought I should have fainted away. But I bore up.’
If certain whispers current in the Kingsgate Street circles had any truth in them, she had indeed borne up surprisingly; and had exerted such uncommon fortitude53 as to dispose of Mr Gamp’s remains54 for the benefit of science. But it should be added, in fairness, that this had happened twenty years before; and that Mr and Mrs Gamp had long been separated on the ground of incompatibility55 of temper in their drink.
‘You have become indifferent since then, I suppose?’ said Mr Pecksniff. ‘Use is second nature, Mrs Gamp.’
‘You may well say second nater, sir,’ returned that lady. ‘One’s first ways is to find sich things a trial to the feelings, and so is one’s lasting56 custom. If it wasn’t for the nerve a little sip16 of liquor gives me (I never was able to do more than taste it), I never could go through with what I sometimes has to do. “Mrs Harris,” I says, at the very last case as ever I acted in, which it was but a young person, “Mrs Harris,” I says, “leave the bottle on the chimley-piece, and don’t ask me to take none, but let me put my lips to it when I am so dispoged, and then I will do what I’m engaged to do, according to the best of my ability.” “Mrs Gamp,” she says, in answer, “if ever there was a sober creetur to be got at eighteen pence a day for working people, and three and six for gentlefolks—night watching,”’ said Mrs Gamp with emphasis, ‘“being a extra charge—you are that inwallable person.” “Mrs Harris,” I says to her, “don’t name the charge, for if I could afford to lay all my feller creeturs out for nothink, I would gladly do it, sich is the love I bears ‘em. But what I always says to them as has the management of matters, Mrs Harris”’—here she kept her eye on Mr Pecksniff—‘"be they gents or be they ladies, is, don’t ask me whether I won’t take none, or whether I will, but leave the bottle on the chimley-piece, and let me put my lips to it when I am so dispoged.”’
The conclusion of this affecting narrative57 brought them to the house. In the passage they encountered Mr Mould the undertaker; a little elderly gentleman, bald, and in a suit of black; with a notebook in his hand, a massive gold watch-chain dangling58 from his fob, and a face in which a queer attempt at melancholy59 was at odds60 with a smirk61 of satisfaction; so that he looked as a man might, who, in the very act of smacking62 his lips over choice old wine, tried to make believe it was physic.
‘Well, Mrs Gamp, and how are you, Mrs Gamp?’ said this gentleman, in a voice as soft as his step.
‘Pretty well, I thank you, sir,’ dropping a curtsey.
‘You’ll be very particular here, Mrs Gamp. This is not a common case, Mrs Gamp. Let everything be very nice and comfortable, Mrs Gamp, if you please,’ said the undertaker, shaking his head with a solemn air.
‘It shall be, sir,’ she replied, curtseying again. ‘You knows me of old, sir, I hope.’
‘I hope so, too, Mrs Gamp,’ said the undertaker, ‘and I think so also.’ Mrs Gamp curtseyed again. ‘This is one of the most impressive cases, sir,’ he continued, addressing Mr Pecksniff, ‘that I have seen in the whole course of my professional experience.’
‘Indeed, Mr Mould!’ cried that gentleman.
‘Such affectionate regret, sir, I never saw. There is no limitation, there is positively63 no limitation’—opening his eyes wide, and standing64 on tiptoe—‘in point of expense! I have orders, sir, to put on my whole establishment of mutes; and mutes come very dear, Mr Pecksniff; not to mention their drink. To provide silver-plated handles of the very best description, ornamented65 with angels’ heads from the most expensive dies. To be perfectly66 profuse67 in feathers. In short, sir, to turn out something absolutely gorgeous.’
‘My friend Mr Jonas is an excellent man,’ said Mr Pecksniff.
‘I have seen a good deal of what is filial in my time, sir,’ retorted Mould, ‘and what is unfilial too. It is our lot. We come into the knowledge of those secrets. But anything so filial as this; anything so honourable68 to human nature; so calculated to reconcile all of us to the world we live in; never yet came under my observation. It only proves, sir, what was so forcibly observed by the lamented69 theatrical70 poet—buried at Stratford—that there is good in everything.’
‘It is very pleasant to hear you say so, Mr Mould,’ observed Pecksniff.
‘You are very kind, sir. And what a man Mr Chuzzlewit was, sir! Ah! what a man he was. You may talk of your lord mayors,’ said Mould, waving his hand at the public in general, ‘your sheriffs, your common councilmen, your trumpery71; but show me a man in this city who is worthy72 to walk in the shoes of the departed Mr Chuzzlewit. No, no,’ cried Mould, with bitter sarcasm73. ‘Hang ‘em up, hang ‘em up; sole ‘em and heel ‘em, and have ‘em ready for his son against he’s old enough to wear ‘em; but don’t try ‘em on yourselves, for they won’t fit you. We knew him,’ said Mould, in the same biting vein74, as he pocketed his note-book; ‘we knew him, and are not to be caught with chaff75. Mr Pecksniff, sir, good morning.’
Mr Pecksniff returned the compliment; and Mould, sensible of having distinguished himself, was going away with a brisk smile, when he fortunately remembered the occasion. Quickly becoming depressed76 again, he sighed; looked into the crown of his hat, as if for comfort; put it on without finding any; and slowly departed.
Mrs Gamp and Mr Pecksniff then ascended77 the staircase; and the former, having been shown to the chamber78 in which all that remained of Anthony Chuzzlewit lay covered up, with but one loving heart, and that a halting one, to mourn it, left the latter free to enter the darkened room below, and rejoin Mr Jonas, from whom he had now been absent nearly two hours.
He found that example to bereaved79 sons, and pattern in the eyes of all performers of funerals, musing80 over a fragment of writing-paper on the desk, and scratching figures on it with a pen. The old man’s chair, and hat, and walking-stick, were removed from their accustomed places, and put out of sight; the window-blinds as yellow as November fogs, were drawn down close; Jonas himself was so subdued81, that he could scarcely be heard to speak, and only seen to walk across the room.
‘Pecksniff,’ he said, in a whisper, ‘you shall have the regulation of it all, mind! You shall be able to tell anybody who talks about it that everything was correctly and nicely done. There isn’t any one you’d like to ask to the funeral, is there?’
‘No, Mr Jonas, I think not.’
‘Because if there is, you know,’ said Jonas, ‘ask him. We don’t want to make a secret of it.’
‘No,’ repeated Mr Pecksniff, after a little reflection. ‘I am not the less obliged to you on that account, Mr Jonas, for your liberal hospitality; but there really is no one.’
‘Very well,’ said Jonas; ‘then you, and I, and Chuffey, and the doctor, will be just a coachful. We’ll have the doctor, Pecksniff, because he knows what was the matter with him, and that it couldn’t be helped.’
‘Where is our dear friend, Mr Chuffey?’ asked Pecksniff, looking round the chamber, and winking82 both his eyes at once—for he was overcome by his feelings.
But here he was interrupted by Mrs Gamp, who, divested83 of her bonnet and shawl, came sidling and bridling84 into the room; and with some sharpness demanded a conference outside the door with Mr Pecksniff.
‘You may say whatever you wish to say here, Mrs Gamp,’ said that gentleman, shaking his head with a melancholy expression.
‘It is not much as I have to say when people is a-mourning for the dead and gone,’ said Mrs Gamp; ‘but what I have to say is to the pint85 and purpose, and no offence intended, must be so considered. I have been at a many places in my time, gentlemen, and I hope I knows what my duties is, and how the same should be performed; in course, if I did not, it would be very strange, and very wrong in sich a gentleman as Mr Mould, which has undertook the highest families in this land, and given every satisfaction, so to recommend me as he does. I have seen a deal of trouble my own self,’ said Mrs Gamp, laying greater and greater stress upon her words, ‘and I can feel for them as has their feelings tried, but I am not a Rooshan or a Prooshan, and consequently cannot suffer Spies to be set over me.’
Before it was possible that an answer could be returned, Mrs Gamp, growing redder in the face, went on to say:
‘It is not a easy matter, gentlemen, to live when you are left a widder woman; particular when your feelings works upon you to that extent that you often find yourself a-going out on terms which is a certain loss, and never can repay. But in whatever way you earns your bread, you may have rules and regulations of your own which cannot be broke through. Some people,’ said Mrs Gamp, again entrenching86 herself behind her strong point, as if it were not assailable by human ingenuity87, ‘may be Rooshans, and others may be Prooshans; they are born so, and will please themselves. Them which is of other naturs thinks different.’
‘If I understand this good lady,’ said Mr Pecksniff, turning to Jonas, ‘Mr Chuffey is troublesome to her. Shall I fetch him down?’
‘Do,’ said Jonas. ‘I was going to tell you he was up there, when she came in. I’d go myself and bring him down, only—only I’d rather you went, if you don’t mind.’
Mr Pecksniff promptly88 departed, followed by Mrs Gamp, who, seeing that he took a bottle and glass from the cupboard, and carried it in his hand, was much softened89.
‘I am sure,’ she said, ‘that if it wasn’t for his own happiness, I should no more mind him being there, poor dear, than if he was a fly. But them as isn’t used to these things, thinks so much of ‘em afterwards, that it’s a kindness to ‘em not to let ‘em have their wish. And even,’ said Mrs Gamp, probably in reference to some flowers of speech she had already strewn on Mr Chuffey, ‘even if one calls ‘em names, it’s only done to rouse ‘em.’
Whatever epithets90 she had bestowed91 on the old clerk, they had not roused him. He sat beside the bed, in the chair he had occupied all the previous night, with his hands folded before him, and his head bowed down; and neither looked up, on their entrance, nor gave any sign of consciousness, until Mr Pecksniff took him by the arm, when he meekly92 rose.
‘Three score and ten,’ said Chuffey, ‘ought and carry seven. Some men are so strong that they live to four score—four times ought’s an ought, four times two’s an eight—eighty. Oh! why—why—why didn’t he live to four times ought’s an ought, and four times two’s an eight, eighty?’
‘Ah! what a wale of grief!’ cried Mrs Gamp, possessing herself of the bottle and glass.
‘Why did he die before his poor old crazy servant?’ said Chuffey, clasping his hands and looking up in anguish93. ‘Take him from me, and what remains?’
‘Mr Jonas,’ returned Pecksniff, ‘Mr Jonas, my good friend.’
‘I loved him,’ cried the old man, weeping. ‘He was good to me. We learnt Tare94 and Tret together at school. I took him down once, six boys in the arithmetic class. God forgive me! Had I the heart to take him down!’
‘Come, Mr Chuffey,’ said Pecksniff. ‘Come with me. Summon up your fortitude, Mr Chuffey.’
‘Yes, I will,’ returned the old clerk. ‘Yes. I’ll sum up my forty—How many times forty—Oh, Chuzzlewit and Son—Your own son Mr Chuzzlewit; your own son, sir!’
He yielded to the hand that guided him, as he lapsed95 into this familiar expression, and submitted to be led away. Mrs Gamp, with the bottle on one knee, and the glass on the other, sat upon a stool, shaking her head for a long time, until, in a moment of abstraction, she poured out a dram of spirits, and raised it to her lips. It was succeeded by a second, and by a third, and then her eyes—either in the sadness of her reflections upon life and death, or in her admiration96 of the liquor—were so turned up, as to be quite invisible. But she shook her head still.
Poor Chuffey was conducted to his accustomed corner, and there he remained, silent and quiet, save at long intervals97, when he would rise, and walk about the room, and wring98 his hands, or raise some strange and sudden cry. For a whole week they all three sat about the hearth99 and never stirred abroad. Mr Pecksniff would have walked out in the evening time, but Mr Jonas was so averse100 to his being absent for a minute, that he abandoned the idea, and so, from morning until night, they brooded together in the dark room, without relief or occupation.
The weight of that which was stretched out, stiff and stark101, in the awful chamber above-stairs, so crushed and bore down Jonas, that he bent102 beneath the load. During the whole long seven days and nights, he was always oppressed and haunted by a dreadful sense of its presence in the house. Did the door move, he looked towards it with a livid face and starting eye, as if he fully24 believed that ghostly fingers clutched the handle. Did the fire flicker103 in a draught104 of air, he glanced over his shoulder, as almost dreading105 to behold106 some shrouded107 figure fanning and flapping at it with its fearful dress. The lightest noise disturbed him; and once, in the night, at the sound of a footstep overhead, he cried out that the dead man was walking—tramp, tramp, tramp—about his coffin108.
He lay at night upon a mattress109 on the floor of the sitting-room110; his own chamber having been assigned to Mrs Gamp; and Mr Pecksniff was similarly accommodated. The howling of a dog before the house, filled him with a terror he could not disguise. He avoided the reflection in the opposite windows of the light that burned above, as though it had been an angry eye. He often, in every night, rose up from his fitful sleep, and looked and longed for dawn; all directions and arrangements, even to the ordering of their daily meals, he abandoned to Mr Pecksniff. That excellent gentleman, deeming that the mourner wanted comfort, and that high feeding was likely to do him infinite service, availed himself of these opportunities to such good purpose, that they kept quite a dainty table during this melancholy season; with sweetbreads, stewed111 kidneys, oysters112, and other such light viands113 for supper every night; over which, and sundry114 jorums of hot punch, Mr Pecksniff delivered such moral reflections and spiritual consolation115 as might have converted a Heathen—especially if he had had but an imperfect acquaintance with the English tongue.
Nor did Mr Pecksniff alone indulge in the creature comforts during this sad time. Mrs Gamp proved to be very choice in her eating, and repudiated116 hashed mutton with scorn. In her drinking too, she was very punctual and particular, requiring a pint of mild porter at lunch, a pint at dinner, half-a-pint as a species of stay or holdfast between dinner and tea, and a pint of the celebrated staggering ale, or Real Old Brighton Tipper, at supper; besides the bottle on the chimney-piece, and such casual invitations to refresh herself with wine as the good breeding of her employers might prompt them to offer. In like manner, Mr Mould’s men found it necessary to drown their grief, like a young kitten in the morning of its existence, for which reason they generally fuddled themselves before they began to do anything, lest it should make head and get the better of them. In short, the whole of that strange week was a round of dismal117 joviality118 and grim enjoyment119; and every one, except poor Chuffey, who came within the shadow of Anthony Chuzzlewit’s grave, feasted like a Ghoul.
At length the day of the funeral, pious120 and truthful121 ceremony that it was, arrived. Mr Mould, with a glass of generous port between his eye and the light, leaned against the desk in the little glass office with his gold watch in his unoccupied hand, and conversed122 with Mrs Gamp; two mutes were at the house-door, looking as mournful as could be reasonably expected of men with such a thriving job in hand; the whole of Mr Mould’s establishment were on duty within the house or without; feathers waved, horses snorted, silk and velvets fluttered; in a word, as Mr Mould emphatically said, ‘Everything that money could do was done.’
‘And what can do more, Mrs Gamp?’ exclaimed the undertaker as he emptied his glass and smacked124 his lips.
‘Nothing in the world, sir.’
‘Nothing in the world,’ repeated Mr Mould. ‘You are right, Mrs Gamp. Why do people spend more money’—here he filled his glass again—‘upon a death, Mrs Gamp, than upon a birth? Come, that’s in your way; you ought to know. How do you account for that now?’
‘Perhaps it is because an undertaker’s charges comes dearer than a nurse’s charges, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp, tittering, and smoothing down her new black dress with her hands.
‘Ha, ha!’ laughed Mr Mould. ‘You have been breakfasting at somebody’s expense this morning, Mrs Gamp.’ But seeing, by the aid of a little shaving-glass which hung opposite, that he looked merry, he composed his features and became sorrowful.
‘Many’s the time that I’ve not breakfasted at my own expense along of your recommending, sir; and many’s the time I hope to do the same in time to come,’ said Mrs Gamp, with an apologetic curtsey.
‘So be it,’ replied Mr Mould, ‘please Providence125. No, Mrs Gamp; I’ll tell you why it is. It’s because the laying out of money with a well-conducted establishment, where the thing is performed upon the very best scale, binds126 the broken heart, and sheds balm upon the wounded spirit. Hearts want binding127, and spirits want balming when people die; not when people are born. Look at this gentleman to-day; look at him.’
‘An open-handed gentleman?’ cried Mrs Gamp, with enthusiasm.
‘No, no,’ said the undertaker; ‘not an open-handed gentleman in general, by any means. There you mistake him; but an afflicted128 gentleman, an affectionate gentleman, who knows what it is in the power of money to do, in giving him relief, and in testifying his love and veneration for the departed. It can give him,’ said Mr Mould, waving his watch-chain slowly round and round, so that he described one circle after every item; ‘it can give him four horses to each vehicle; it can give him velvet123 trappings; it can give him drivers in cloth cloaks and top-boots; it can give him the plumage of the ostrich129, dyed black; it can give him any number of walking attendants, dressed in the first style of funeral fashion, and carrying batons130 tipped with brass131; it can give him a handsome tomb; it can give him a place in Westminster Abbey itself, if he choose to invest it in such a purchase. Oh! do not let us say that gold is dross132, when it can buy such things as these, Mrs Gamp.’
‘But what a blessing133, sir,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘that there are such as you, to sell or let ‘em out on hire!’
‘Aye, Mrs Gamp, you are right,’ rejoined the undertaker. ‘We should be an honoured calling. We do good by stealth, and blush to have it mentioned in our little bills. How much consolation may I—even I,’ cried Mr Mould, ‘have diffused134 among my fellow-creatures by means of my four long-tailed prancers, never harnessed under ten pund ten!’
Mrs Gamp had begun to make a suitable reply, when she was interrupted by the appearance of one of Mr Mould’s assistants—his chief mourner in fact—an obese135 person, with his waistcoat in closer connection with his legs than is quite reconcilable with the established ideas of grace; with that cast of feature which is figuratively called a bottle nose; and with a face covered all over with pimples136. He had been a tender plant once upon a time, but from constant blowing in the fat atmosphere of funerals, had run to seed.
‘A beautiful show, sir,’ rejoined Tacker. ‘The horses are prouder and fresher than ever I see ‘em; and toss their heads, they do, as if they knowed how much their plumes138 cost. One, two, three, four,’ said Mr Tacker, heaping that number of black cloaks upon his left arm.
‘Is Tom there, with the cake and wine?’ asked Mr Mould.
‘Ready to come in at a moment’s notice, sir,’ said Tacker.
‘Then,’ rejoined Mr Mould, putting up his watch, and glancing at himself in the little shaving-glass, that he might be sure his face had the right expression on it; ‘then I think we may proceed to business. Give me the paper of gloves, Tacker. Ah, what a man he was! Ah, Tacker, Tacker, what a man he was!’
Mr Tacker, who from his great experience in the performance of funerals, would have made an excellent pantomime actor, winked140 at Mrs Gamp without at all disturbing the gravity of his countenance, and followed his master into the next room.
It was a great point with Mr Mould, and a part of his professional tact141, not to seem to know the doctor; though in reality they were near neighbours, and very often, as in the present instance, worked together. So he advanced to fit on his black kid gloves as if he had never seen him in all his life; while the doctor, on his part, looked as distant and unconscious as if he had heard and read of undertakers, and had passed their shops, but had never before been brought into communication with one.
‘Gloves, eh?’ said the doctor. ‘Mr Pecksniff after you.’
‘I couldn’t think of it,’ returned Mr Pecksniff.
‘You are very good,’ said the doctor, taking a pair. ‘Well, sir, as I was saying—I was called up to attend that case at about half-past one o’clock. Cake and wine, eh? Which is port? Thank you.’
Mr Pecksniff took some also.
‘At about half-past one o’clock in the morning, sir,’ resumed the doctor, ‘I was called up to attend that case. At the first pull of the night-bell I turned out, threw up the window, and put out my head. Cloak, eh? Don’t tie it too tight. That’ll do.’
Mr Pecksniff having been likewise inducted into a similar garment, the doctor resumed.
‘And put out my head—hat, eh? My good friend, that is not mine. Mr Pecksniff, I beg your pardon, but I think we have unintentionally made an exchange. Thank you. Well, sir, I was going to tell you—’
‘We are quite ready,’ interrupted Mould in a low voice.
‘Ready, eh?’ said the doctor. ‘Very good, Mr Pecksniff, I’ll take an opportunity of relating the rest in the coach. It’s rather curious. Ready, eh? No rain, I hope?’
‘Quite fair, sir,’ returned Mould.
‘I was afraid the ground would have been wet,’ said the doctor, ‘for my glass fell yesterday. We may congratulate ourselves upon our good fortune.’ But seeing by this time that Mr Jonas and Chuffey were going out at the door, he put a white pocket-handkerchief to his face as if a violent burst of grief had suddenly come upon him, and walked down side by side with Mr Pecksniff.
Mr Mould and his men had not exaggerated the grandeur142 of the arrangements. They were splendid. The four hearse-horses, especially, reared and pranced143, and showed their highest action, as if they knew a man was dead, and triumphed in it. ‘They break us, drive us, ride us; ill-treat, abuse, and maim144 us for their pleasure—But they die; Hurrah145, they die!’
So through the narrow streets and winding146 city ways, went Anthony Chuzzlewit’s funeral; Mr Jonas glancing stealthily out of the coach-window now and then, to observe its effect upon the crowd; Mr Mould as he walked along, listening with a sober pride to the exclamations147 of the bystanders; the doctor whispering his story to Mr Pecksniff, without appearing to come any nearer the end of it; and poor old Chuffey sobbing148 unregarded in a corner. But he had greatly scandalized Mr Mould at an early stage of the ceremony by carrying his handkerchief in his hat in a perfectly informal manner, and wiping his eyes with his knuckles149. And as Mr Mould himself had said already, his behaviour was indecent, and quite unworthy of such an occasion; and he never ought to have been there.
There he was, however; and in the churchyard there he was, also, conducting himself in a no less unbecoming manner, and leaning for support on Tacker, who plainly told him that he was fit for nothing better than a walking funeral. But Chuffey, Heaven help him! heard no sound but the echoes, lingering in his own heart, of a voice for ever silent.
‘I loved him,’ cried the old man, sinking down upon the grave when all was done. ‘He was very good to me. Oh, my dear old friend and master!’
‘Come, come, Mr Chuffey,’ said the doctor, ‘this won’t do; it’s a clayey soil, Mr Chuffey. You mustn’t, really.’
‘If it had been the commonest thing we do, and Mr Chuffey had been a Bearer, gentlemen,’ said Mould, casting an imploring150 glance upon them, as he helped to raise him, ‘he couldn’t have gone on worse than this.’
‘Be a man, Mr Chuffey,’ said Pecksniff.
‘Be a gentleman, Mr Chuffey,’ said Mould.
‘Upon my word, my good friend,’ murmured the doctor, in a tone of stately reproof151, as he stepped up to the old man’s side, ‘this is worse than weakness. This is bad, selfish, very wrong, Mr Chuffey. You should take example from others, my good sir. You forget that you were not connected by ties of blood with our deceased friend; and that he had a very near and very dear relation, Mr Chuffey.’
‘Aye, his own son!’ cried the old man, clasping his hands with remarkable passion. ‘His own, own, only son!’
‘He’s not right in his head, you know,’ said Jonas, turning pale. ‘You’re not to mind anything he says. I shouldn’t wonder if he was to talk some precious nonsense. But don’t you mind him, any of you. I don’t. My father left him to my charge; and whatever he says or does, that’s enough. I’ll take care of him.’
A hum of admiration rose from the mourners (including Mr Mould and his merry men) at this new instance of magnanimity and kind feeling on the part of Jonas. But Chuffey put it to the test no farther. He said not a word more, and being left to himself for a little while, crept back again to the coach.
It has been said that Mr Jonas turned pale when the behaviour of the old clerk attracted general attention; his discomposure, however, was but momentary152, and he soon recovered. But these were not the only changes he had exhibited that day. The curious eyes of Mr Pecksniff had observed that as soon as they left the house upon their mournful errand, he began to mend; that as the ceremonies proceeded he gradually, by little and little, recovered his old condition, his old looks, his old bearing, his old agreeable characteristics of speech and manner, and became, in all respects, his old pleasant self. And now that they were seated in the coach on their return home; and more when they got there, and found the windows open, the light and air admitted, and all traces of the late event removed; he felt so well convinced that Jonas was again the Jonas he had known a week ago, and not the Jonas of the intervening time, that he voluntarily gave up his recently-acquired power without one faint attempt to exercise it, and at once fell back into his former position of mild and deferential153 guest.
Mrs Gamp went home to the bird-fancier’s, and was knocked up again that very night for a birth of twins; Mr Mould dined gayly in the bosom154 of his family, and passed the evening facetiously155 at his club; the hearse, after standing for a long time at the door of a roistering public-house, repaired to its stables with the feathers inside and twelve red-nosed undertakers on the roof, each holding on by a dingy156 peg157, to which, in times of state, a waving plume139 was fitted; the various trappings of sorrow were carefully laid by in presses for the next hirer; the fiery158 steeds were quenched159 and quiet in their stalls; the doctor got merry with wine at a wedding-dinner, and forgot the middle of the story which had no end to it; the pageant160 of a few short hours ago was written nowhere half so legibly as in the undertaker’s books.
Not in the churchyard? Not even there. The gates were closed; the night was dark and wet; the rain fell silently, among the stagnant161 weeds and nettles162. One new mound163 was there which had not been there last night. Time, burrowing164 like a mole165 below the ground, had marked his track by throwing up another heap of earth. And that was all.
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1
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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6
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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7
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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8
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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9
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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heralded
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| v.预示( herald的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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12
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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13
assailable
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| adj.可攻击的，易攻击的 | |
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14
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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15
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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16
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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17
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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18
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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19
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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20
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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21
hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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22
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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23
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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24
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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25
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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26
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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27
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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28
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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29
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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30
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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31
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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32
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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33
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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35
hooted
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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37
hustle
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| v.推搡；竭力兜售或获取；催促；n.奔忙(碌) | |
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38
execration
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| n.诅咒，念咒，憎恶 | |
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39
dexterously
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| adv.巧妙地，敏捷地 | |
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40
disabused
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| v.去除…的错误想法( disabuse的过去式和过去分词 )；使醒悟 | |
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41
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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42
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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43
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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44
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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45
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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46
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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47
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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48
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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49
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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50
predilections
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| n.偏爱，偏好，嗜好( predilection的名词复数 ) | |
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51
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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52
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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53
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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54
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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55
incompatibility
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| n.不兼容 | |
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56
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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57
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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58
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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59
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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60
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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61
smirk
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| n.得意地笑；v.傻笑；假笑着说 | |
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62
smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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63
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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64
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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65
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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67
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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68
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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69
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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71
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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72
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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73
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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74
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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75
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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76
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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77
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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79
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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80
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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81
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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82
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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83
divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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84
bridling
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的现在分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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85
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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86
entrenching
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| v.用壕沟围绕或保护…( entrench的现在分词 )；牢固地确立… | |
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87
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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88
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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89
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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90
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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91
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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93
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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94
tare
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| n.皮重；v.量皮重 | |
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95
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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96
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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97
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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98
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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99
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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100
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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101
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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102
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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103
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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104
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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105
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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106
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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107
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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108
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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109
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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110
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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111
stewed
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| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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112
oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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113
viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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114
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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115
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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116
repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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117
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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118
joviality
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| n.快活 | |
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119
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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120
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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121
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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122
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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123
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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124
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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126
binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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127
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
ostrich
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| n.鸵鸟 | |
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130
batons
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| n.（警察武器）警棍( baton的名词复数 )；（乐队指挥用的）指挥棒；接力棒 | |
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131
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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132
dross
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| n.渣滓；无用之物 | |
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133
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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obese
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| adj.过度肥胖的，肥大的 | |
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136
pimples
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| n.丘疹，粉刺，小脓疱( pimple的名词复数 ) | |
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137
tacker
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| 敲平头顶的人，敲平头钉器 | |
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138
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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139
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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140
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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141
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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142
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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143
pranced
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
maim
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| v.使残废，使不能工作，使伤残 | |
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145
hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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146
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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147
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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148
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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149
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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150
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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151
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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152
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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153
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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154
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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155
facetiously
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| adv.爱开玩笑地；滑稽地，爱开玩笑地 | |
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156
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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157
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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158
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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159
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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160
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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161
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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162
nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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163
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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164
burrowing
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的现在分词 )；翻寻 | |
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165
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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