Nicholas Nickleby
‘You are resolved to fix it upon me, I see,’ said Nicholas, smiling,
‘although I told you, last night, it was not my fault.’
‘There; he says it was not his fault, my dear,’ remarked the wicked Miss
Price. ‘Perhaps you were too jealous, or too hasty with him? He says it
was not his fault. You hear; I think that’s apology enough.’
‘You will not understand me,’ said Nicholas. ‘Pray dispense with this
jesting, for I have no time, and really no inclination, to be the
subject or promoter of mirth just now.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Miss Price, affecting amazement.
‘Don’t ask him, ‘Tilda,’ cried Miss Squeers; ‘I forgive him.’
‘Dear me,’ said Nicholas, as the brown bonnet went down on his shoulder
again, ‘this is more serious than I supposed. Allow me! Will you have
the goodness to hear me speak?’
Here he raised up the brown bonnet, and regarding with most unfeigned
astonishment a look of tender reproach from Miss Squeers, shrunk back a
few paces to be out of the reach of the fair burden, and went on to say:
‘I am very sorry--truly and sincerely sorry--for having been the
cause of any difference among you, last night. I reproach myself, most
bitterly, for having been so unfortunate as to cause the dissension
that occurred, although I did so, I assure you, most unwittingly and
heedlessly.’
‘Well; that’s not all you have got to say surely,’ exclaimed Miss Price
as Nicholas paused.
‘I fear there is something more,’ stammered Nicholas with a half-smile,
and looking towards Miss Squeers, ‘it is a most awkward thing to
say--but--the very mention of such a supposition makes one look like a
puppy--still--may I ask if that lady supposes that I entertain any--in
short, does she think that I am in love with her?’
‘Delightful embarrassment,’ thought Miss Squeers, ‘I have brought him to
it, at last. Answer for me, dear,’ she whispered to her friend.
‘Does she think so?’ rejoined Miss Price; ‘of course she does.’
‘She does!’ exclaimed Nicholas with such energy of utterance as might
have been, for the moment, mistaken for rapture.
‘Certainly,’ replied Miss Price
‘If Mr. Nickleby has doubted that, ‘Tilda,’ said the blushing Miss
Squeers in soft accents, ‘he may set his mind at rest. His sentiments
are recipro--’
‘Stop,’ cried Nicholas hurriedly; ‘pray hear me. This is the grossest
and wildest delusion, the completest and most signal mistake, that ever
human being laboured under, or committed. I have scarcely seen the
young lady half-a-dozen times, but if I had seen her sixty times, or am
destined to see her sixty thousand, it would be, and will be, precisely
the same. I have not one thought, wish, or hope, connected with her,
unless it be--and I say this, not to hurt her feelings, but to impress
her with the real state of my own--unless it be the one object, dear to
my heart as life itself, of being one day able to turn my back upon
this accursed place, never to set foot in it again, or think of it--even
think of it--but with loathing and disgust.’
With this particularly plain and straightforward declaration, which
he made with all the vehemence that his indignant and excited feelings
could bring to bear upon it, Nicholas waiting to hear no more,
retreated.
But poor Miss Squeers! Her anger, rage, and vexation; the rapid
succession of bitter and passionate feelings that whirled through her
mind; are not to be described. Refused! refused by a teacher, picked
up by advertisement, at an annual salary of five pounds payable at
indefinite periods, and ‘found’ in food and lodging like the very boys
themselves; and this too in the presence of a little chit of a miller’s
daughter of eighteen, who was going to be married, in three weeks’ time,
to a man who had gone down on his very knees to ask her. She could have
choked in right good earnest, at the thought of being so humbled.
But, there was one thing clear in the midst of her mortification; and
that was, that she hated and detested Nicholas with all the narrowness
of mind and littleness of purpose worthy a descendant of the house of
Squeers. And there was one comfort too; and that was, that every hour in
every day she could wound his pride, and goad him with the infliction
of some slight, or insult, or deprivation, which could not but have some
effect on the most insensible person, and must be acutely felt by one so
sensitive as Nicholas. With these two reflections uppermost in her mind,
Miss Squeers made the best of the matter to her friend, by observing
that Mr. Nickleby was such an odd creature, and of such a violent temper,
that she feared she should be obliged to give him up; and parted from
her.
And here it may be remarked, that Miss Squeers, having bestowed her
affections (or whatever it might be that, in the absence of anything
better, represented them) on Nicholas Nickleby, had never once seriously
contemplated the possibility of his being of a different opinion
from herself in the business. Miss Squeers reasoned that she was
prepossessing and beautiful, and that her father was master, and
Nicholas man, and that her father had saved money, and Nicholas had
none, all of which seemed to her conclusive arguments why the young man
should feel only too much honoured by her preference. She had not failed
to recollect, either, how much more agreeable she could render his
situation if she were his friend, and how much more disagreeable if she
were his enemy; and, doubtless, many less scrupulous young gentlemen
than Nicholas would have encouraged her extravagance had it been only
for this very obvious and intelligible reason. However, he had thought
proper to do otherwise, and Miss Squeers was outrageous.
‘Let him see,’ said the irritated young lady, when she had regained her
own room, and eased her mind by committing an assault on Phib, ‘if I
don’t set mother against him a little more when she comes back!’
It was scarcely necessary to do this, but Miss Squeers was as good as
her word; and poor Nicholas, in addition to bad food, dirty lodging,
and the being compelled to witness one dull unvarying round of squalid
misery, was treated with every special indignity that malice could
suggest, or the most grasping cupidity put upon him.
Nor was this all. There was another and deeper system of annoyance which
made his heart sink, and nearly drove him wild, by its injustice and
cruelty.
The wretched creature, Smike, since the night Nicholas had spoken
kindly to him in the schoolroom, had followed him to and fro, with an
ever-restless desire to serve or help him; anticipating such little
wants as his humble ability could supply, and content only to be near
him. He would sit beside him for hours, looking patiently into his face;
and a word would brighten up his care-worn visage, and call into it a
passing gleam, even of happiness. He was an altered being; he had an
object now; and that object was, to show his attachment to the only
person--that person a stranger--who had treated him, not to say with
kindness, but like a human creature.
Upon this poor being, all the spleen and ill-humour that could not be
vented on Nicholas were unceasingly bestowed. Drudgery would have been
nothing--Smike was well used to that. Buffetings inflicted without
cause, would have been equally a matter of course; for to them also
he had served a long and weary apprenticeship; but it was no sooner
observed that he had become attached to Nicholas, than stripes and
blows, stripes and blows, morning, noon, and night, were his only
portion. Squeers was jealous of the influence which his man had so soon
acquired, and his family hated him, and Smike paid for both. Nicholas
saw it, and ground his teeth at every repetition of the savage and
cowardly attack.
He had arranged a few regular lessons for the boys; and one night, as
he paced up and down the dismal schoolroom, his swollen heart almost
bursting to think that his protection and countenance should have
increased the misery of the wretched being whose peculiar destitution
had awakened his pity, he paused mechanically in a dark corner where sat
the object of his thoughts.
The poor soul was poring hard over a tattered book, with the traces of
recent tears still upon his face; vainly endeavouring to master some
task which a child of nine years old, possessed of ordinary powers,
could have conquered with ease, but which, to the addled brain of the
crushed boy of nineteen, was a sealed and hopeless mystery. Yet there he
sat, patiently conning the page again and again, stimulated by no boyish
ambition, for he was the common jest and scoff even of the uncouth
objects that congregated about him, but inspired by the one eager desire
to please his solitary friend.
Nicholas laid his hand upon his shoulder.
‘I can’t do it,’ said the dejected creature, looking up with bitter
disappointment in every feature. ‘No, no.’
‘Do not try,’ replied Nicholas.
The boy shook his head, and closing the book with a sigh, looked
vacantly round, and laid his head upon his arm. He was weeping.
‘Do not for God’s sake,’ said Nicholas, in an agitated voice; ‘I cannot
bear to see you.’
‘They are more hard with me than ever,’ sobbed the boy.
‘I know it,’ rejoined Nicholas. ‘They are.’
‘But for you,’ said the outcast, ‘I should die. They would kill me; they
would; I know they would.’
‘You will do better, poor fellow,’ replied Nicholas, shaking his head
mournfully, ‘when I am gone.’
‘Gone!’ cried the other, looking intently in his face.
‘Softly!’ rejoined Nicholas. ‘Yes.’
‘Are you going?’ demanded the boy, in an earnest whisper.
‘I cannot say,’ replied Nicholas. ‘I was speaking more to my own
thoughts, than to you.’
‘Tell me,’ said the boy imploringly, ‘oh do tell me, WILL you go--WILL
you?’
‘I shall be driven to that at last!’ said Nicholas. ‘The world is before
me, after all.’
‘Tell me,’ urged Smike, ‘is the world as bad and dismal as this place?’
‘Heaven forbid,’ replied Nicholas, pursuing the train of his own
thoughts; ‘its hardest, coarsest toil, were happiness to this.’
‘Should I ever meet you there?’ demanded the boy, speaking with unusual
wildness and volubility.
‘Yes,’ replied Nicholas, willing to soothe him.
‘No, no!’ said the other, clasping him by the hand. ‘Should I--should
I--tell me that again. Say I should be sure to find you.’
‘You would,’ replied Nicholas, with the same humane intention, ‘and I
would help and aid you, and not bring fresh sorrow on you as I have done
here.’
The boy caught both the young man’s hands passionately in his, and,
hugging them to his breast, uttered a few broken sounds which were
unintelligible. Squeers entered at the moment, and he shrunk back into
his old corner.
CHAPTER 13
Nicholas varies the Monotony of Dothebys Hall by a most vigorous and
remarkable proceeding, which leads to Consequences of some Importance
The cold, feeble dawn of a January morning was stealing in at the
windows of the common sleeping-room, when Nicholas, raising himself on
his arm, looked among the prostrate forms which on every side surrounded
him, as though in search of some particular object.
It needed a quick eye to detect, from among the huddled mass of
sleepers, the form of any given individual. As they lay closely packed
together, covered, for warmth’s sake, with their patched and ragged
clothes, little could be distinguished but the sharp outlines of pale
faces, over which the sombre light shed the same dull heavy colour;
with, here and there, a gaunt arm thrust forth: its thinness hidden by
no covering, but fully exposed to view, in all its shrunken ugliness.
There were some who, lying on their backs with upturned faces and
clenched hands, just visible in the leaden light, bore more the aspect