University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
CHURM AGAINST DENSDETH.

I had hardly taken my first spoonful of lukewarm
mock soup at the long, crowded dinner-table
of the Chuzzlewit, when General Blinckers,
a fellow-passenger on the Arago, caught sight of
me. He bowed, with a burly, pompous, militia-general
manner, and sent me his sherry. It was
the Chuzzlewit Amontillado, so a gorgeous label
announced, and sunshine, so its date alleged,
had ripened it a score of years before on an aromatic
hill-side of Spain. But the bottle was very
young for old wine, the label very pretentious for
famous wine, and my draught, as I expected,
gnawed me cruelly.

In a moment came a bow from Governor Bluffer,
also fellow-passenger, and his bottle of the
Chuzzlewit champagne, — label prismatic and
glowing, bubbles transitory, wine sugary and
vapid.

Bluffer was of Indiana, returning from a trip
to Europe as a railroad-bond placer. He had
placed his bonds, second mortgages of the Muddefontaine

Railroad, with great success. His
State would now become first in America, first
in Christendom. He was sure of it. And by
way of advancing the process, he had proposed
to me to become “Professor of Science” in the
Terryhutte University, — salary five third mortgages
of the Muddefontaine per annum.

Blinckers was of Tennessee, wild-land agent.
He had been urgent all the passage that I should
take post as Professor in the Nolachucky State
Polytechnic School, — salary a thousand acres
per annum of wild land in the Cumberland
Mountains.

Both of these offers I had declined; but I was
obliged to the two gentlemen. I bowed back to
their bows, and sipped the liquids they had sent
me without mouthing.

Presently, as I glanced up and down the table,
I caught sight of Densdeth's dark, handsome
face. He had turned from his companion, and
was looking at me. He lifted his black moustache
with a slight sneer, and pointed to untasted
glasses of Blinckers and Bluffer standing before
him.

“See!” his glance seemed to say. “Libations
at the shrine of Densdeth, the millionnaire.
Those old chaps would kiss my feet, if I hinted
it.”

Then he held up his own private glass, as if
to say, with Comus, —

A dusty magnum stood beside him, without
label, but wearing a conscious look of importance.
He carefully filled a goblet with its
purple contents, and despatched it to me by his
own servant.

Densdeth was a coxcomb, partly by nature,
partly for effect. He liked to call attention to
himself as the Great Densdeth. He always had
special wines, special dainties, and special service.

“It pays to be conspicuous,” he said to me, on
board the steamer. “I don't attempt to humbug
fellows like you, Byng,” — and at this I of
course felt a little complimented, — “but we
must take men as we find them. They are
asses. I treat them as such. Ordinary people
adore luxury. They love to see it, whether
they share it or not. A little quiet show and
lavishness on one's self is a capital thing to
get the world's confidence.

“Besides, Byng,” he continued, “I love luxury
for its own sake. I mean to have the best
for all my senses. I keep myself in perfect
health, you see, for perfect sensitiveness and
perfect enjoyment. Why should n't I take the
little trouble it requires to have the most delicate
wine, and other things the most delicate,

always at command? Life is short. Après, le
déluge, or worse.”

While I was recalling these remarks, Densdeth's
servant had deposited the wine at my
right. He was an Afreet creature, this servant,
black, ugly, and brutal as the real Mumbo
Jumbo. Yet sometimes, as he stood by his master,
I could not avoid perceiving a resemblance,
and fancying him a misbegotten repetition of
the other. And at the moments when I mistrusted
Densdeth, I felt that the Afreet's repulsive
appearance more fitly interpreted his master's
soul than the body by which it acted.

I raised the goblet to my mouth. The aroma
was delicious.

“Densdeth,” I thought, “must have had a
cask of the happiest vintage of Burgundy's divinest
juice hung in gimbals, and floated over
the Atlantic in the June calms.”

I put the fragrant draught to my lips, and
bowed my compliments.

Densdeth was studying me, with a covert expression,
— so I felt or fancied. I interpreted his
look, — “Young man, I saw on the steamer that
you were worth buying, worth perverting. I have
spent more civility than usual on you already.
How much more have I to pay? Are you a
cheap commodity? Or must I give time and
pains and study to make you mine?”

Do these fancies seem extravagant? They
must justify themselves hereafter in this history.

I set down Densdeth's glass, untasted.

“What does it mean,” thought I, “this man's
strange fascination? When his eyes are upon
me, I feel something stir in my heart, saying,
`Be Densdeth's! He knows the mystery of
life.' I begin to dread him. Will he master
my will? What is this potency of his? How
has he got this lodgment in my spirit? Is he
one of those fabulous personages who only exist
while they are preying upon another soul, who
are torpid unless they are busy contriving a damnation?
Why has he been trying to turn me
inside out all the voyage? Why has he kept
touching the raw spots and the rotten spots in
my nature? I can be of no use to him. What
does he want of me? Not to make me better
and nobler, — that I am sure of. No; I will not
touch his wine. I will keep clear of his attentions.”

By the way of desperate evasion, I seized and
tossed off, first, Governor Bluffer's mawkish
champagne, and then the acrid fabrication with
which Blinckers had honored me.

Of course the rash and feeble dodge was futile.
I was not to be let off in that way.

There stood Densdeth's wine, attracting me
like some magic philter. It became magnetic

with Densdeth's magnetism. I could almost see
an imp in the glass, — not the teetotaller's bottleimp,
but a special sprite, urging me, “Drink,
and let the draught symbolize renewed intimacy
with Densdeth! Drink, and accept his proffered
alliance. Be wise, and taste!”

The vulgar scenery of the long dining-room
faded away from my eyes. The vulgar, dressy
women, the ill-dressed, vulgar men, the oleaginous
waiters, all became distant shadows. I heard
the clatter and bustle and pop about me, as
one hears the hum of mosquitos outside a bar
at drowsy midnight. I was conscious of nothing
but the wine — the philter — and him who had
poured it out.

Absurd! Yes; no doubt. But fact. Certainly
a Chuzzlewit dining-room is a shrine of
the commonplace; but even there such a mood
is possible under such an influence. Densdeth
was exceptional.

I sat staring at the silly glass of wine, and
began to make an unwholesome test of my self-control.
I recalled the typical legend of Eve
and the apple, and exaggerated the moral importance
of my own incident after the same
fashion.

“If I resist this symbolic cup,” thought I, “I
am my own man; if I yield, I am Densdeth's.”

When a man is weak enough to put slavery

and freedom thus in the balance, it is plain that
he will presently be a slave.

“Bah!” I thought. “What harm, after all,
can this terrible person do me? Why should
n't I accept his alliance? Why should n't I
study him, and learn the secret of his power.”

My slight resistance was about to yield to the
spiritual enticement of the wine, when suddenly
an outer force broke the spell.

A gentleman had just taken a vacant chair
at my right. Absorbed in the mêlée of my own
morbid fancies, I had merely perceived his presence,
without noticing his person.

Suddenly this new-comer took part in the
drama. He flirted his napkin, and knocked
Densdeth's wine-glass over into my plate. The
purple fluid made an unpleasant mixture with
my untouched portion of fish.

“Thank you!” I exclaimed, waking at once
from my half-trance, my magnetic stupor, and
feeling foolish.

I turned to look at my unexpected ally. Perhaps
some clumsy oaf who had never brandished
a napkin before, and struck wide, like a raw
swordsman.

No. My neighbor was a gentleman. He held
out his hand cordially.

“Have I waked you fully, Byng?” he asked.

“Mr. Churm?” said I.

He nodded. We shook hands. The touch
dissipated my brief insanity.

“You have been in a state of coma so long
over that wine,” said he, “that I thought I would
give you a fillip of help.”

I tried to laugh.

“No,” resumed Churm. “Only escaped dangers
show their comic side. You are not safe
from Densdeth yet. You would have yielded
just now if I had not spilled the glass.”

“Yielded!” I rejoined. “Not exactly; I
was proposing to test his mysterious influence.”

“Never try that! Don't dive into temptation
to show how stoutly you can swim. Once fairly
under water in Acheron, and you never come to
the top again.”

“Face Satan, and he flies, is not your motto,
then.”

“Face him when you must; fly him when
you may.”

“But really, — Devil and Densdeth; is it quite
polite to identify them?” I asked.

“If you do not wish to see them melt into one,
keep yourself from both.”

“And stay in a pretty paradise of innocence?”

“I cannot jest about this, Byng. I knew a
fresh, strong, pure soul, — fresher, stronger,
purer than the fairest dreams of perfection. It

was the destiny of such a soul to battle with
Densdeth and be beaten. Yes; defeated, and
driven to madness or despair.”

“You are speaking of Clara Denman.”

“I am.”

As he replied, I looked up and caught Densdeth's
eye. He took my glance and carried it
with his to the upper end of the table. A flamboyant
demirep was seated there. Densdeth
marked that I observed her, and then smiled
sinister, as if to say: “Byng, the romantic, there
is the type of American women; look at her,
and correct your boyish ideal.”

Churm noticed this by-play.

“But better madness and death for my dear
child,” said he, sadly, “than Densdeth!”

Then waiving the subject, he continued: “You
were surprised to find me at your side.”

“It was an odd chance, certainly.”

“No chance. Locksley told me that you had
moved in from the Chuzzlewit, as Stillfleet's successor.
I knocked at Rubbish Palace door. You
were out. I thought you might be dining here.
I looked in, saw you, and took my seat at your
side. I did not hurry recognition. I was curious
to see if you would know an old friend.”

“I have called upon you already,” said I. “I
am a big boy, but I wanted to put myself under
tutelage.”

“Well, we are in the same Chrysalis; we will
try to take care of each other till our wing.”

My lively interest in the name Cecil Dreeme
recurred to me.

“Are there others worth knowing in Chrysalis?”
I asked.

“No. Bright fellows like brighter places.
Only an old troglodyte like myself burrows in
such a cavern. Nobody but Stillfleet could have
kept in jolly health there. Take care it does not
make you sombre.”

“It will suit my sober, plodding habits. But
tell me, do you know anything of a Mr. Dreeme,
a painter, fellow-lodger of ours? I saw his name
on a door as I was looking for yours? Is he a
rising genius? Must I know him?”

As I asked these questions, it happened that
Densdeth laughed in reply to some joke of his
guest.

Densdeth's smile, unless he chose to let it pass
into a sneer, was gentlemanly and winning. A
little incredulous and inattentive I had found it
when I spoke of heroism, charity, or self-sacrifice.
It pardoned belief in such whimsies as a juvenility.
His laugh, however, expressed a riper
cynicism. It was faithless and cruel, — I had
sometimes thought brutally so.

Breaking in at this moment, rather loudly for
the public place, it seemed to strike at the romantic

interest I had felt in the name Cecil
Dreeme. What would a man of the world think
of such idle fancies as I had indulged apropos of
the painter's door-card? I really hoped Churm
would be able to reply, “O, Dreeme! He
is a creature with a seedy velvet coat, frowzy
hair, big pipe, — rank Düsseldorf. Don't know
him!”

“There is a young fellow of that name in the
building,” said Churm. “I have never happened
to see him. Locksley says he is a quiet, gentlemanly
youth from the country, who lives retired,
works hard, and minds his own business.”

Neither my friend nor I ventured upon serious
topics for the rest of the dinner.

“I have an errand down town,” said he.
“You shall walk with me, and afterwards we
will discuss your prospects over a cigar at Chrysalis.”

So we talked Europe — a light subject to
Americans — until dessert was over, and the
Chuzzlewit guests began to file out, wishing they
had not taken so much pie and meringue on top
of the salad, and had given to the Tract Society
the two dollars now racking their several brains,
and rioting in their several stomachs, in the form
of sherry or champagne.

Churm and I joined the procession. We were
battling for our hats in the lobby with a brace of

seedy gents who proposed to appropriate them,
when Densdeth came out.

He saluted me cordially and Churm distantly.

No love between these two. Apart from any
moral contrast, their temperaments were too opposite
to combine. Antagonistic natures do not
necessarily make man and woman hostile, even
when they are imprisoned for life in matrimony;
domestic life stirs and stirs, slow and steady, and
at last the two mix, like the oil and mustard in
a mayonnaise. But the more contact, the more
repulsion, in two men of such different quality as
Churm and Densdeth.

Both were quiet and self-possessed, and yet it
seemed to me that, if a thin shell of decorum and
restraint between them should be broken by any
outer force, the two would clash together like
explosive gases, and the weaker be utterly consumed
away. I had already had hints, as I have
stated, that they had causes for dislike. I could
not wonder, as I saw them standing side by side.
They were as different as men could be and yet
be men.

I observed them with a certain premonition
that I was to be in some way drawn into the
battle they must fight or were fighting. With
which captain was I to be ranged?

Densdeth was a man of slight, elegant, active
figure, and of clear, colorless, olive complexion.

His hair was black and studiously arranged.
He was shaved, except a long drooping moustache,
— that he could not have spared; it served
sometimes to conceal, sometimes to emphasize, a
sneer. His nose was a delicate aquiline, and his
other fine-cut features corresponded. His eyes
were yellow, feline, and restless, — the only restless
thing about him. They glanced from your
lips to your eyes and back, while you talked
with him, as if to catch each winged word, and
compare it with the expression perched above.
Quick and sidelong looks detect a swarm of
Pleiads where the steady gaze sees only six.
Densdeth seemed to have learnt this lesson from
astronomy; he shot his glance across your face
to catch expressions which fancied themselves
latent. Keen eyes Densdeth's to recognize a
villain.

Churm was sturdy and vigorous; well built,
one would say, not well made; built for use, not
made for show. His Saxon coloring of hair and
complexion were almost the artistic contrast to
Densdeth's Oriental hues. He wore his hair and
thick brown beard cut short. His features were
all strongly marked and finished somewhat in the
rough, not weakened by chiselling and mending.
His eyes were blue, frank, and earnest. He looked
his man fair and square in the face, and never
swerved until each had had his say. Keen enough,

too, Churm's eyes. They were his lanterns to
search for an honest man and friend, not for a
rogue and tool.

These men's voices also proclaimed natures at
war.

In wild beasts the cry reveals the character-So
it does in man, — a cross between a beast
and a soul. If beast is keeping soul under,
he lets the world know it in every word his
man speaks. The snarl, the yelp, and the
howl are all there for him that has ears to
hear. If the soul in the man has good hope
and good courage, through all his tones sound
the song of hope and the pæan of assured victory.

Churm's voice was bold and sweet, with a
sharp edge. He was outspoken and incisive.
Any mind, not muffled by moss or thicket, would
hear itself echo when he spoke. His laugh, if it
made free to leap out for a holiday, was a boy's
laugh, frank, merry, and irrepressible. There
was, however, underneath all his cheerful, inspiring,
and forgiving tones, a stern Rhadamanthine
quality, as of one to whom profound experience
has given that rare, costly, and sorrowful right,
— the right to judge and condemn.

Densdeth spoke with a delicate lisp, or rather
Spanish softness. There was a snarl, however,
beneath these mild, measured notes. He soothed

you; but you felt that there was a claw curled
under the velvet. As to his laugh, it was jackal,
— a cruel, traitorous laugh, without sympathy or
humor, — a sneer given voice. But this ugly
sound it was impossible to be much with Densdeth
and not first echo and then adopt.

The same general contrast of nature was visible
in the costumes of these gentlemen. Even a
coat may be one of the outward signs by which
we betray the grace or disgrace that is in us.

Churm was in fatigue dress. He looked water-proof,
sun-proof, frost-proof. No tenderness for
his clothes would ever check him from wading a
gutter or storming a slum, if there were man to
be aided or woman to be saved. He dressed as
if life were a battle, and he were appointed to the
thick of the fight, too well known a generalissimo
to need a uniform.

Densdeth was a little too carefully dressed.
His clothes had a conscious air. His trousers
hung as if they felt his eye on them, and dreaded
a beating if they bagged. His costume was generally
quiet, so severely quiet that it was evident
he desired to be flagrant, and obeyed tact rather
than taste. In fact, taste always hung out a protest
of a diamond stud, or an elaborate chain or
eye-glass. Still these were not glaring errors,
and Densdeth's distinguished air and marked
Orientalism of face made a touch of splendor
tolerable.

I sketch a few of the external traits of these
two. I might continue the contrast at length.
Even at that period of my acquaintance they had
become representative personages to me. And
now, as I look back upon that time, I find that I
divined them justly. They in some measure personified
to me the two opposing forces that war
for every soul.

As they bowed coldly to each other in the hall
of the Chuzzlewit, and turned to me, I seemed at
once to become conscious of their rival influences.
My dual nature felt the dual attraction.

“Glad to see you again, Byng,” said Densdeth,
offering his hand. “Will you walk into
my parlor? I am quartered here for a day or
two. Come; I can give you an honest cigar and
a thimbleful of Chartreuse.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “Another time, if
you please. Just now I am off with Mr. Churm.”

“Au revoir!” says Densdeth. “But let me
not forget to mention that I have seen our friends,
Mr. and Miss Denman. They hope for a call
from you, for old friendship's sake. If I had
known of your former intimacy there, we should
have had another tie on board the steamer.”

His yellow eyes came and went as he spoke,
exploring my face to discover, “What has Churm
told him of me and Clara Denman? What has
he heard of that tragedy? Something, but how
much?”

“Miss Denman will be at home to-morrow, at
one,” he continued. “I took the liberty to
promise that you would accept my guidance, and
pay your respects at that hour.”

“You are very kind,” I of course said. “I
will go with pleasure.”

“I will call for you, then, at Chrysalis. I
heard here at the hotel-office that you had moved
into Harry Stillfleet's grand den. I felicitate
you.”

“You have a den adjoining,” said I, my tone
no doubt betraying some curiosity.

“O, my lumber-room,” he replied, carelessly.
“I find it quite a convenience. A nomad bachelor
like myself needs some place to store what
traps he cannot carry in his portmanteau.”

“Well, Mr. Churm,” said I, as we walked off
together; “you see I cannot evade Densdeth.
He is my first acquaintance at home, my next-door
neighbor in Chrysalis, and now he takes the
superintendence of my re-introduction to old
friends. Fate seems determined that I shall
clash against him. I am not sure whether my
self is elastic enough to throw him off, even if
I desire to.”

“No self gets a vigorous repelling power until
it is condensed by suffering.”

“Then I would rather stay soft and yielding,”
said I, lightly. “But, Mr. Churm, before I call

upon the Denmans, you must tell me the whole
story of their tragedy, otherwise I may wound
them ignorantly.”

“I desire to do so, my dear boy, for many
reasons. We will have a session presently at
your rooms, and talk that history through.”

He walked on down Broadway, silent and
moody.

“Observe where I lead you,” said he, turning
to the east through several mean, narrow streets.

“Seems to me,” said I, “you have fouler
slums here than Europe tolerates.”

“If you could see the person I am going to
visit, you would understand why. If men here
must skulk because they are base, or guilty, or
imbecile, they strive to get more completely out
of sight, and shelter themselves behind more
stenches than people do in countries where the
social system partially justifies degradation. But
here we are, Byng. I have brought you along
with a purpose.”

Churm stopped in front of a mean, frowzy row
of brick buildings. He led the way through a
most unsavory alley into a court, or rather space,
serving as a well to light the rear range of a
tenement-house. In a guilty-looking entry of
this back building Churm left me, while he entered
a wretched room.

It is no part of my purpose to describe this

dismal place, or to moralize over it. Perhaps
at that time in my life I had too little pity
for poverty, and only a healthy disgust for filth.
I remained outside, smoking and listening to
the jackal-voices of the young barbarians crying
for supper from cellar to garret of the building.

“You will remember this spot,” said Churm,
issuing after a few moments, and leading the
way out again.

“My poor victimized nose will have hard
work to forget it.”

“And the name Towner,” my friend continued.

“Also Towner,” I rejoined. And probably
my tone expressed the query, “Who is he?”

“Towner is the tarnished reverse of that burnished
medal Densdeth, — Densdeth without gilding.”

“Did Densdeth fling him away into this hole?”

“He is lying perdu here, hid from Densdeth
and the world. He has been a clerk, agent,
tool, slave, of the Great Densdeth. The poor
wretch has a little shrivelled bit of conscience
left. It twinges him sometimes, like a dying
nerve in a rotten tooth. He sent for me the
other day, by Locksley, saying that he was sick,
poor, and penitent for a villany he had done
against me, and wanted to confess before he
died, and before Densdeth could find him again.

This is my third visit. He cannot make up his
impotent mind to confession. He must speak
soon, or concealment will kill him. I am to
come down to-night at eleven and watch with
him.”

“Till when you will watch with me in Chrysalis.”

“Yes; and now I suppose you wonder why
I brought you here.”

“To teach me that republics are unsavory?”

“Perhaps I want you to take an interest in
this poor devil, in case I should be absent; perhaps
I wish you to see the result of the Densdeth
experiment, when it does not succeed;
perhaps — well, Byng, you will promise me to
expend a little of your superabundant vitality
on my patient, if he needs it?”

“Certainly; but understood, that you pay to
have me deodorized and disinfected after each
visit.”

I could not give a cheerful turn to the talk.
Churm walked on, silent and out of spirits.