Martin Chuzzlewit - Charles Dickens (i wanna iguana read aloud .txt) 📗

class="calibre1">‘Bother Mrs Harris!’ said Betsey Prig.

Mrs Gamp looked at her with amazement, incredulity, and indignation; when Mrs Prig, shutting her eye still closer, and folding her arms still tighter, uttered these memorable and tremendous words:

‘I don’t believe there’s no sich a person!’

After the utterance of which expressions, she leaned forward, and snapped her fingers once, twice, thrice; each time nearer to the face of Mrs Gamp, and then rose to put on her bonnet, as one who felt that there was now a gulf between them, which nothing could ever bridge across.

The shock of this blow was so violent and sudden, that Mrs Gamp sat staring at nothing with uplifted eyes, and her mouth open as if she were gasping for breath, until Betsey Prig had put on her bonnet and her shawl, and was gathering the latter about her throat. Then Mrs Gamp rose—morally and physically rose—and denounced her.

‘What!’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘you bage creetur, have I know’d Mrs Harris five and thirty year, to be told at last that there ain’t no sech a person livin’! Have I stood her friend in all her troubles, great and small, for it to come at last to sech a end as this, which her own sweet picter hanging up afore you all the time, to shame your Bragian words! But well you mayn’t believe there’s no sech a creetur, for she wouldn’t demean herself to look at you, and often has she said, when I have made mention of your name, which, to my sinful sorrow, I have done, “What, Sairey Gamp! debage yourself to HER!” Go along with you!’

‘I’m a-goin’, ma’am, ain’t I?’ said Mrs Prig, stopping as she said it.

‘You had better, ma’am,’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘Do you know who you’re talking to, ma’am?’ inquired her visitor.

‘Aperiently,’ said Mrs Gamp, surveying her with scorn from head to foot, ‘to Betsey Prig. Aperiently so. I know her. No one better. Go along with you!’

‘And YOU was a-goin’ to take me under you!’ cried Mrs Prig, surveying Mrs Gamp from head to foot in her turn. ‘YOU was, was you? Oh, how kind! Why, deuce take your imperence,’ said Mrs Prig, with a rapid change from banter to ferocity, ‘what do you mean?’

‘Go along with you!’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘I blush for you.’

‘You had better blush a little for yourself, while you ARE about it!’ said Mrs Prig. ‘You and your Chuffeys! What, the poor old creetur isn’t mad enough, isn’t he? Aha!’

‘He’d very soon be mad enough, if you had anything to do with him,’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘And that’s what I was wanted for, is it?’ cried Mrs Prig, triumphantly. ‘Yes. But you’ll find yourself deceived. I won’t go near him. We shall see how you get on without me. I won’t have nothink to do with him.’

‘You never spoke a truer word than that!’ said Mrs Gamp. ‘Go along with you!’

She was prevented from witnessing the actual retirement of Mrs Prig from the room, notwithstanding the great desire she had expressed to behold it, by that lady, in her angry withdrawal, coming into contact with the bedstead, and bringing down the previously mentioned pippins; three or four of which came rattling on the head of Mrs Gamp so smartly, that when she recovered from this wooden shower-bath, Mrs Prig was gone.

She had the satisfaction, however, of hearing the deep voice of Betsey, proclaiming her injuries and her determination to have nothing to do with Mr Chuffey, down the stairs, and along the passage, and even out in Kingsgate Street. Likewise of seeing in her own apartment, in the place of Mrs Prig, Mr Sweedlepipe and two gentlemen.

‘Why, bless my life!’ exclaimed the little barber, ‘what’s amiss? The noise you ladies have been making, Mrs Gamp! Why, these two gentlemen have been standing on the stairs, outside the door, nearly all the time, trying to make you hear, while you were pelting away, hammer and tongs! It’ll be the death of the little bullfinch in the shop, that draws his own water. In his fright, he’s been a-straining himself all to bits, drawing more water than he could drink in a twelvemonth. He must have thought it was Fire!’

Mrs Gamp had in the meanwhile sunk into her chair, from whence, turning up her overflowing eyes, and clasping her hands, she delivered the following lamentation:

‘Oh, Mr Sweedlepipes, which Mr Westlock also, if my eyes do not deceive, and a friend not havin’ the pleasure of bein’ beknown, wot I have took from Betsey Prig this blessed night, no mortial creetur knows! If she had abuged me, bein’ in liquor, which I thought I smelt her wen she come, but could not so believe, not bein’ used myself’—Mrs Gamp, by the way, was pretty far gone, and the fragrance of the teapot was strong in the room—‘I could have bore it with a thankful art. But the words she spoke of Mrs Harris, lambs could not forgive. No, Betsey!’ said Mrs Gamp, in a violent burst of feeling, ‘nor worms forget!’

The little barber scratched his head, and shook it, and looked at the teapot, and gradually got out of the room. John Westlock, taking a chair, sat down on one side of Mrs Gamp. Martin, taking the foot of the bed, supported her on the other.

‘You wonder what we want, I daresay,’ observed John. ‘I’ll tell you presently, when you have recovered. It’s not pressing, for a few minutes or so. How do you find yourself? Better?’

Mrs Gamp shed more tears, shook her head and feebly pronounced Mrs Harris’s name.

‘Have a little—’ John was at a loss what to call it.

‘Tea,’ suggested Martin.

‘It ain’t tea,’ said Mrs Gamp.

‘Physic of some sort, I suppose,’ cried John. ‘Have a little.’

Mrs Gamp was prevailed upon to take a glassful. ‘On condition,’ she passionately observed, ‘as Betsey never has another stroke of work from me.’

‘Certainly not,’ said John. ‘She shall never help to nurse ME.’

‘To think,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘as she should ever have helped to nuss that friend of yourn, and been so near of hearing things that—Ah!’

John looked at Martin.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That was a narrow escape, Mrs Gamp.’

‘Narrer, in-deed!’ she returned. ‘It was only my having the night, and hearin’ of him in his wanderins; and her the day, that saved it. Wot would she have said and done, if she had know’d what I know; that perfeejus wretch! Yet, oh good gracious me!’ cried Mrs Gamp, trampling on the floor, in the absence of Mrs Prig, ‘that I should hear from that same woman’s lips what I have heerd her speak of Mrs Harris!’

‘Never mind,’ said John. ‘You know it is not true.’

‘Isn’t true!’ cried Mrs Gamp. ‘True! Don’t I know as that dear woman is expecting of me at this minnit, Mr Westlock, and is a-lookin’ out of window down the street, with little Tommy Harris in her arms, as calls me his own Gammy, and truly calls, for bless the mottled little legs of that there precious child (like Canterbury Brawn his own dear father says, which so they are) his own I have been, ever since I found him, Mr Westlock, with his small red worsted shoe a-gurglin’ in his throat, where he had put it in his play, a chick, wile they was leavin’ of him on the floor a-lookin’ for it through the ouse and him a-choakin’ sweetly in the parlour! Oh, Betsey Prig, what wickedness you’ve showed this night, but never shall you darken Sairey’s doors agen, you twining serpiant!’

‘You were always so kind to her, too!’ said John, consolingly.

‘That’s the cutting part. That’s where it hurts me, Mr Westlock,’ Mrs Gamp replied; holding out her glass unconsciously, while Martin filled it.

‘Chosen to help you with Mr Lewsome!’ said John. ‘Chosen to help you with Mr Chuffey!’

‘Chose once, but chose no more,’ cried Mrs Gamp. ‘No pardnership with Betsey Prig agen, sir!’

‘No, no,’ said John. ‘That would never do.’

‘I don’t know as it ever would have done, sir,’ Mrs Gamp replied, with a solemnity peculiar to a certain stage of intoxication. ‘Now that the marks,’ by which Mrs Gamp is supposed to have meant mask, ‘is off that creetur’s face, I do not think it ever would have done. There are reagions in families for keeping things a secret, Mr Westlock, and havin’ only them about you as you knows you can repoge in. Who could repoge in Betsey Prig, arter her words of Mrs Harris, setting in that chair afore my eyes!’

‘Quite true,’ said John; ‘quite. I hope you have time to find another assistant, Mrs Gamp?’

Between her indignation and the teapot, her powers of comprehending what was said to her began to fail. She looked at John with tearful eyes, and murmuring the well-remembered name which Mrs Prig had challenged—as if it were a talisman against all earthly sorrows— seemed to wander in her mind.

‘I hope,’ repeated John, ‘that you have time to find another assistant?’

‘Which short it is, indeed,’ cried Mrs Gamp, turning up her languid eyes, and clasping Mr Westlock’s wrist with matronly affection. ‘Tomorrow evenin’, sir, I waits upon his friends. Mr Chuzzlewit apinted it from nine to ten.’

‘From nine to ten,’ said John, with a significant glance at Martin. ‘and then Mr Chuffey retires into safe keeping, does he?’

‘He needs to be kep safe, I do assure you,’ Mrs Gamp replied with a mysterious air. ‘Other people besides me has had a happy deliverance from Betsey Prig. I little know’d that woman. She’d have let it out!’

‘Let HIM out, you mean,’ said John.

‘Do I!’ retorted Mrs Gamp. ‘Oh!’

The severely ironical character of this reply was strengthened by a very slow nod, and a still slower drawing down of the corners of Mrs Gamp’s mouth. She added with extreme stateliness of manner after indulging in a short doze:

‘But I am a-keepin’ of you gentlemen, and time is precious.’

Mingling with that delusion of the teapot which inspired her with the belief that they wanted her to go somewhere immediately, a shrewd avoidance of any further reference to the topics into which she had lately strayed, Mrs Gamp rose; and putting away the teapot in its accustomed place, and locking the cupboard with much gravity proceeded to attire herself for a professional visit.

This preparation was easily made, as it required nothing more than the snuffy black bonnet, the snuffy black shawl, the pattens and the indispensable umbrella, without which neither a lying-in nor a laying-out could by any possibility be attempted. When Mrs Gamp had invested herself with these appendages she returned to her chair, and sitting down again, declared herself quite ready.

‘It’s a ‘appiness to know as one can benefit the poor sweet creetur,’ she observed, ‘I’m sure. It isn’t all as can. The torters Betsey Prig inflicts is frightful!’

Closing her eyes as she made this remark, in the acuteness of her commiseration for Betsey’s patients, she forgot to open them again until she dropped a patten. Her nap was also broken at intervals like the fabled slumbers of Friar Bacon, by the dropping of the other patten, and of the umbrella. But when she had got rid of those incumbrances, her sleep was peaceful.

The two young men looked at each other, ludicrously enough; and Martin, stifling his disposition to laugh, whispered in John Westlock’s ear,

‘What shall we do now?’

‘Stay here,’ he replied.

Mrs Gamp was heard to murmur ‘Mrs Harris’ in her sleep.

‘Rely upon it,’ whispered John, looking cautiously towards her, ‘that you shall question this old clerk, though you go as Mrs Harris herself. We know quite enough to carry her our own way now, at all events; thanks to this