Nicholas Nickleby
‘When I dramatise a book, sir,’ said the literary gentleman, ‘THAT’S
fame. For its author.’
‘Oh, indeed!’ rejoined Nicholas.
‘That’s fame, sir,’ said the literary gentleman.
‘So Richard Turpin, Tom King, and Jerry Abershaw have handed down to
fame the names of those on whom they committed their most impudent
robberies?’ said Nicholas.
‘I don’t know anything about that, sir,’ answered the literary
gentleman.
‘Shakespeare dramatised stories which had previously appeared in print,
it is true,’ observed Nicholas.
‘Meaning Bill, sir?’ said the literary gentleman. ‘So he did. Bill
was an adapter, certainly, so he was--and very well he adapted
too--considering.’
‘I was about to say,’ rejoined Nicholas, ‘that Shakespeare derived some
of his plots from old tales and legends in general circulation; but it
seems to me, that some of the gentlemen of your craft, at the present
day, have shot very far beyond him--’
‘You’re quite right, sir,’ interrupted the literary gentleman, leaning
back in his chair and exercising his toothpick. ‘Human intellect, sir,
has progressed since his time, is progressing, will progress.’
‘Shot beyond him, I mean,’ resumed Nicholas, ‘in quite another
respect, for, whereas he brought within the magic circle of his genius,
traditions peculiarly adapted for his purpose, and turned familiar
things into constellations which should enlighten the world for ages,
you drag within the magic circle of your dulness, subjects not at all
adapted to the purposes of the stage, and debase as he exalted. For
instance, you take the uncompleted books of living authors, fresh from
their hands, wet from the press, cut, hack, and carve them to the powers
and capacities of your actors, and the capability of your theatres,
finish unfinished works, hastily and crudely vamp up ideas not yet
worked out by their original projector, but which have doubtless cost
him many thoughtful days and sleepless nights; by a comparison of
incidents and dialogue, down to the very last word he may have written
a fortnight before, do your utmost to anticipate his plot--all this
without his permission, and against his will; and then, to crown the
whole proceeding, publish in some mean pamphlet, an unmeaning farrago of
garbled extracts from his work, to which your name as author, with the
honourable distinction annexed, of having perpetrated a hundred other
outrages of the same description. Now, show me the distinction between
such pilfering as this, and picking a man’s pocket in the street:
unless, indeed, it be, that the legislature has a regard for
pocket-handkerchiefs, and leaves men’s brains, except when they are
knocked out by violence, to take care of themselves.’
‘Men must live, sir,’ said the literary gentleman, shrugging his
shoulders.
‘That would be an equally fair plea in both cases,’ replied Nicholas;
‘but if you put it upon that ground, I have nothing more to say, than,
that if I were a writer of books, and you a thirsty dramatist, I would
rather pay your tavern score for six months, large as it might be, than
have a niche in the Temple of Fame with you for the humblest corner of
my pedestal, through six hundred generations.’
The conversation threatened to take a somewhat angry tone when it had
arrived thus far, but Mrs. Crummles opportunely interposed to prevent
its leading to any violent outbreak, by making some inquiries of the
literary gentleman relative to the plots of the six new pieces which he
had written by contract to introduce the African Knife-swallower in
his various unrivalled performances. This speedily engaged him in an
animated conversation with that lady, in the interest of which, all
recollection of his recent discussion with Nicholas very quickly
evaporated.
The board being now clear of the more substantial articles of food,
and punch, wine, and spirits being placed upon it and handed about, the
guests, who had been previously conversing in little groups of three
or four, gradually fell off into a dead silence, while the majority of
those present glanced from time to time at Mr. Snittle Timberry, and
the bolder spirits did not even hesitate to strike the table with their
knuckles, and plainly intimate their expectations, by uttering such
encouragements as ‘Now, Tim,’ ‘Wake up, Mr. Chairman,’ ‘All charged, sir,
and waiting for a toast,’ and so forth.
To these remonstrances Mr. Timberry deigned no other rejoinder than
striking his chest and gasping for breath, and giving many other
indications of being still the victim of indisposition--for a man
must not make himself too cheap either on the stage or off--while
Mr. Crummles, who knew full well that he would be the subject of the
forthcoming toast, sat gracefully in his chair with his arm thrown
carelessly over the back, and now and then lifted his glass to his mouth
and drank a little punch, with the same air with which he was accustomed
to take long draughts of nothing, out of the pasteboard goblets in
banquet scenes.
At length Mr. Snittle Timberry rose in the most approved attitude, with
one hand in the breast of his waistcoat and the other on the nearest
snuff-box, and having been received with great enthusiasm, proposed,
with abundance of quotations, his friend Mr. Vincent Crummles: ending a
pretty long speech by extending his right hand on one side and his left
on the other, and severally calling upon Mr. and Mrs. Crummles to grasp
the same. This done, Mr. Vincent Crummles returned thanks, and that done,
the African Swallower proposed Mrs. Vincent Crummles, in affecting terms.
Then were heard loud moans and sobs from Mrs. Crummles and the ladies,
despite of which that heroic woman insisted upon returning thanks
herself, which she did, in a manner and in a speech which has never been
surpassed and seldom equalled. It then became the duty of Mr. Snittle
Timberry to give the young Crummleses, which he did; after which
Mr. Vincent Crummles, as their father, addressed the company in a
supplementary speech, enlarging on their virtues, amiabilities, and
excellences, and wishing that they were the sons and daughter of every
lady and gentleman present. These solemnities having been succeeded by
a decent interval, enlivened by musical and other entertainments,
Mr. Crummles proposed that ornament of the profession, the African
Swallower, his very dear friend, if he would allow him to call him so;
which liberty (there being no particular reason why he should not allow
it) the African Swallower graciously permitted. The literary gentleman
was then about to be drunk, but it being discovered that he had been
drunk for some time in another acceptation of the term, and was then
asleep on the stairs, the intention was abandoned, and the honour
transferred to the ladies. Finally, after a very long sitting, Mr
Snittle Timberry vacated the chair, and the company with many adieux and
embraces dispersed.
Nicholas waited to the last to give his little presents. When he had
said goodbye all round and came to Mr. Crummles, he could not but mark
the difference between their present separation and their parting at
Portsmouth. Not a jot of his theatrical manner remained; he put out his
hand with an air which, if he could have summoned it at will, would have
made him the best actor of his day in homely parts, and when Nicholas
shook it with the warmth he honestly felt, appeared thoroughly melted.
‘We were a very happy little company, Johnson,’ said poor Crummles. ‘You
and I never had a word. I shall be very glad tomorrow morning to think
that I saw you again, but now I almost wish you hadn’t come.’
Nicholas was about to return a cheerful reply, when he was greatly
disconcerted by the sudden apparition of Mrs. Grudden, who it seemed had
declined to attend the supper in order that she might rise earlier in
the morning, and who now burst out of an adjoining bedroom, habited in
very extraordinary white robes; and throwing her arms about his neck,
hugged him with great affection.
‘What! Are you going too?’ said Nicholas, submitting with as good a
grace as if she had been the finest young creature in the world.
‘Going?’ returned Mrs. Grudden. ‘Lord ha’ mercy, what do you think they’d
do without me?’
Nicholas submitted to another hug with even a better grace than before,
if that were possible, and waving his hat as cheerfully as he could,
took farewell of the Vincent Crummleses.
CHAPTER 49
Chronicles the further Proceedings of the Nickleby Family, and the
Sequel of the Adventure of the Gentleman in the Small-clothes
While Nicholas, absorbed in the one engrossing subject of interest which
had recently opened upon him, occupied his leisure hours with thoughts
of Madeline Bray, and in execution of the commissions which the anxiety
of brother Charles in her behalf imposed upon him, saw her again and
again, and each time with greater danger to his peace of mind and a more
weakening effect upon the lofty resolutions he had formed, Mrs. Nickleby
and Kate continued to live in peace and quiet, agitated by no other
cares than those which were connected with certain harassing proceedings
taken by Mr. Snawley for the recovery of his son, and their anxiety for
Smike himself, whose health, long upon the wane, began to be so much
affected by apprehension and uncertainty as sometimes to occasion both
them and Nicholas considerable uneasiness, and even alarm.
It was no complaint or murmur on the part of the poor fellow himself
that thus disturbed them. Ever eager to be employed in such slight
services as he could render, and always anxious to repay his benefactors
with cheerful and happy looks, less friendly eyes might have seen in him
no cause for any misgiving. But there were times, and often too, when
the sunken eye was too bright, the hollow cheek too flushed, the breath
too thick and heavy in its course, the frame too feeble and exhausted,
to escape their regard and notice.
There is a dread disease which so prepares its victim, as it were, for
death; which so refines it of its grosser aspect, and throws around
familiar looks unearthly indications of the coming change; a dread
disease, in which the struggle between soul and body is so gradual,
quiet, and solemn, and the result so sure, that day by day, and grain by
grain, the mortal part wastes and withers away, so that the spirit grows
light and sanguine with its lightening load, and, feeling immortality at
hand, deems it but a new term of mortal life; a disease in which death
and life are so strangely blended, that death takes the glow and hue
of life, and life the gaunt and grisly form of death; a disease which
medicine never cured, wealth never warded off, or poverty could boast
exemption from; which sometimes moves in giant strides, and sometimes at
a tardy sluggish pace, but, slow or quick, is ever sure and certain.
It was with some faint reference in his own mind to this disorder,
though he would by no means admit it, even to himself, that Nicholas had
already carried his faithful companion to a physician of great repute.
There was no cause for immediate alarm, he said. There were no present
symptoms which could be deemed conclusive. The constitution had been
greatly tried and injured in childhood, but still it MIGHT not be--and
that was all.
But he seemed to grow no worse, and, as it was not difficult to find a
reason for these symptoms of illness in the shock and agitation he had
recently undergone, Nicholas comforted himself with the hope that his
poor friend would soon recover. This hope his mother and sister shared
with him; and as the object of their joint solicitude seemed to have
no uneasiness or despondency for himself, but each day answered with a
quiet smile that he felt better than he had upon the day before, their