Nicholas Nickleby
‘It’s very much changed since my time, then,’ said the collector, ‘very
much.’
‘Was it a dismal one in your time?’ asked Nicholas, scarcely able to
repress a smile.
‘Very,’ replied Mr. Lillyvick, with some vehemence of manner. ‘It’s the
war time that I speak of; the last war. It may be a cheerful language.
I should be sorry to contradict anybody; but I can only say that I’ve
heard the French prisoners, who were natives, and ought to know how to
speak it, talking in such a dismal manner, that it made one miserable to
hear them. Ay, that I have, fifty times, sir--fifty times!’
Mr. Lillyvick was waxing so cross, that Mrs. Kenwigs thought it expedient
to motion to Nicholas not to say anything; and it was not until Miss
Petowker had practised several blandishments, to soften the excellent
old gentleman, that he deigned to break silence by asking,
‘What’s the water in French, sir?’
‘L’EAU,’ replied Nicholas.
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Lillyvick, shaking his head mournfully, ‘I thought as
much. Lo, eh? I don’t think anything of that language--nothing at all.’
‘I suppose the children may begin, uncle?’ said Mrs. Kenwigs.
‘Oh yes; they may begin, my dear,’ replied the collector,
discontentedly. ‘I have no wish to prevent them.’
This permission being conceded, the four Miss Kenwigses sat in a row,
with their tails all one way, and Morleena at the top: while Nicholas,
taking the book, began his preliminary explanations. Miss Petowker
and Mrs. Kenwigs looked on, in silent admiration, broken only by the
whispered assurances of the latter, that Morleena would have it all by
heart in no time; and Mr. Lillyvick regarded the group with frowning and
attentive eyes, lying in wait for something upon which he could open a
fresh discussion on the language.
CHAPTER 17
Follows the Fortunes of Miss Nickleby
It was with a heavy heart, and many sad forebodings which no effort
could banish, that Kate Nickleby, on the morning appointed for the
commencement of her engagement with Madame Mantalini, left the city when
its clocks yet wanted a quarter of an hour of eight, and threaded her
way alone, amid the noise and bustle of the streets, towards the west
end of London.
At this early hour many sickly girls, whose business, like that of the
poor worm, is to produce, with patient toil, the finery that bedecks
the thoughtless and luxurious, traverse our streets, making towards the
scene of their daily labour, and catching, as if by stealth, in their
hurried walk, the only gasp of wholesome air and glimpse of sunlight
which cheer their monotonous existence during the long train of hours
that make a working day. As she drew nigh to the more fashionable
quarter of the town, Kate marked many of this class as they passed by,
hurrying like herself to their painful occupation, and saw, in their
unhealthy looks and feeble gait, but too clear an evidence that her
misgivings were not wholly groundless.
She arrived at Madame Mantalini’s some minutes before the appointed
hour, and after walking a few times up and down, in the hope that some
other female might arrive and spare her the embarrassment of stating her
business to the servant, knocked timidly at the door: which, after some
delay, was opened by the footman, who had been putting on his striped
jacket as he came upstairs, and was now intent on fastening his apron.
‘Is Madame Mantalini in?’ faltered Kate.
‘Not often out at this time, miss,’ replied the man in a tone which
rendered “Miss,” something more offensive than “My dear.”
‘Can I see her?’ asked Kate.
‘Eh?’ replied the man, holding the door in his hand, and honouring the
inquirer with a stare and a broad grin, ‘Lord, no.’
‘I came by her own appointment,’ said Kate; ‘I am--I am--to be employed
here.’
‘Oh! you should have rung the worker’s bell,’ said the footman, touching
the handle of one in the door-post. ‘Let me see, though, I forgot--Miss
Nickleby, is it?’
‘Yes,’ replied Kate.
‘You’re to walk upstairs then, please,’ said the man. ‘Madame Mantalini
wants to see you--this way--take care of these things on the floor.’
Cautioning her, in these terms, not to trip over a heterogeneous litter
of pastry-cook’s trays, lamps, waiters full of glasses, and piles of
rout seats which were strewn about the hall, plainly bespeaking a late
party on the previous night, the man led the way to the second story,
and ushered Kate into a back-room, communicating by folding-doors
with the apartment in which she had first seen the mistress of the
establishment.
‘If you’ll wait here a minute,’ said the man, ‘I’ll tell her presently.’
Having made this promise with much affability, he retired and left Kate
alone.
There was not much to amuse in the room; of which the most attractive
feature was, a half-length portrait in oil, of Mr. Mantalini, whom the
artist had depicted scratching his head in an easy manner, and thus
displaying to advantage a diamond ring, the gift of Madame Mantalini
before her marriage. There was, however, the sound of voices in
conversation in the next room; and as the conversation was loud and the
partition thin, Kate could not help discovering that they belonged to Mr
and Mrs. Mantalini.
‘If you will be odiously, demnebly, outr_i_geously jealous, my soul,’ said
Mr. Mantalini, ‘you will be very miserable--horrid miserable--demnition
miserable.’ And then, there was a sound as though Mr. Mantalini were
sipping his coffee.
‘I AM miserable,’ returned Madame Mantalini, evidently pouting.
‘Then you are an ungrateful, unworthy, demd unthankful little fairy,’
said Mr. Mantalini.
‘I am not,’ returned Madame, with a sob.
‘Do not put itself out of humour,’ said Mr. Mantalini, breaking an egg.
‘It is a pretty, bewitching little demd countenance, and it should not
be out of humour, for it spoils its loveliness, and makes it cross and
gloomy like a frightful, naughty, demd hobgoblin.’
‘I am not to be brought round in that way, always,’ rejoined Madame,
sulkily.
‘It shall be brought round in any way it likes best, and not brought
round at all if it likes that better,’ retorted Mr. Mantalini, with his
egg-spoon in his mouth.
‘It’s very easy to talk,’ said Mrs. Mantalini.
‘Not so easy when one is eating a demnition egg,’ replied Mr. Mantalini;
‘for the yolk runs down the waistcoat, and yolk of egg does not match
any waistcoat but a yellow waistcoat, demmit.’
‘You were flirting with her during the whole night,’ said Madame
Mantalini, apparently desirous to lead the conversation back to the
point from which it had strayed.
‘No, no, my life.’
‘You were,’ said Madame; ‘I had my eye upon you all the time.’
‘Bless the little winking twinkling eye; was it on me all the time!’
cried Mantalini, in a sort of lazy rapture. ‘Oh, demmit!’
‘And I say once more,’ resumed Madame, ‘that you ought not to waltz with
anybody but your own wife; and I will not bear it, Mantalini, if I take
poison first.’
‘She will not take poison and have horrid pains, will she?’ said
Mantalini; who, by the altered sound of his voice, seemed to have moved
his chair, and taken up his position nearer to his wife. ‘She will not
take poison, because she had a demd fine husband who might have married
two countesses and a dowager--’
‘Two countesses,’ interposed Madame. ‘You told me one before!’
‘Two!’ cried Mantalini. ‘Two demd fine women, real countesses and
splendid fortunes, demmit.’
‘And why didn’t you?’ asked Madame, playfully.
‘Why didn’t I!’ replied her husband. ‘Had I not seen, at a morning
concert, the demdest little fascinator in all the world, and while that
little fascinator is my wife, may not all the countesses and dowagers in
England be--’
Mr. Mantalini did not finish the sentence, but he gave Madame Mantalini
a very loud kiss, which Madame Mantalini returned; after which, there
seemed to be some more kissing mixed up with the progress of the
breakfast.
‘And what about the cash, my existence’s jewel?’ said Mantalini, when
these endearments ceased. ‘How much have we in hand?’
‘Very little indeed,’ replied Madame.
‘We must have some more,’ said Mantalini; ‘we must have some discount
out of old Nickleby to carry on the war with, demmit.’
‘You can’t want any more just now,’ said Madame coaxingly.
‘My life and soul,’ returned her husband, ‘there is a horse for sale
at Scrubbs’s, which it would be a sin and a crime to lose--going, my
senses’ joy, for nothing.’
‘For nothing,’ cried Madame, ‘I am glad of that.’
‘For actually nothing,’ replied Mantalini. ‘A hundred guineas down will
buy him; mane, and crest, and legs, and tail, all of the demdest beauty.
I will ride him in the park before the very chariots of the rejected
countesses. The demd old dowager will faint with grief and rage; the
other two will say “He is married, he has made away with himself, it
is a demd thing, it is all up!” They will hate each other demnebly, and
wish you dead and buried. Ha! ha! Demmit.’
Madame Mantalini’s prudence, if she had any, was not proof against these
triumphal pictures; after a little jingling of keys, she observed that
she would see what her desk contained, and rising for that purpose,
opened the folding-door, and walked into the room where Kate was seated.
‘Dear me, child!’ exclaimed Madame Mantalini, recoiling in surprise.
‘How came you here?’
‘Child!’ cried Mantalini, hurrying in. ‘How came--eh!--oh--demmit, how
d’ye do?’
‘I have been waiting, here some time, ma’am,’ said Kate, addressing
Madame Mantalini. ‘The servant must have forgotten to let you know that
I was here, I think.’
‘You really must see to that man,’ said Madame, turning to her husband.
‘He forgets everything.’
‘I will twist his demd nose off his countenance for leaving such a very
pretty creature all alone by herself,’ said her husband.
‘Mantalini,’ cried Madame, ‘you forget yourself.’
‘I don’t forget you, my soul, and never shall, and never can,’ said
Mantalini, kissing his wife’s hand, and grimacing aside, to Miss
Nickleby, who turned away.
Appeased by this compliment, the lady of the business took some papers
from her desk which she handed over to Mr. Mantalini, who received them
with great delight. She then requested Kate to follow her, and after
several feints on the part of Mr. Mantalini to attract the young lady’s
attention, they went away: leaving that gentleman extended at full
length on the sofa, with his heels in the air and a newspaper in his
hand.
Madame Mantalini led the way down a flight of stairs, and through a
passage, to a large room at the back of the premises where were a number
of young women employed in sewing, cutting out, making up, altering, and
various other processes known only to those who are cunning in the arts
of millinery and dressmaking. It was a close room with a skylight, and
as dull and quiet as a room need be.
On Madame Mantalini calling aloud for Miss Knag, a short, bustling,
over-dressed female, full of importance, presented herself, and all the
young ladies suspending their operations for the moment, whispered
to each other sundry criticisms upon the make and texture of Miss
Nickleby’s dress, her complexion, cast of features, and personal
appearance, with as much good breeding as could have been displayed by
the very best society in a crowded ball-room.
‘Oh, Miss Knag,’ said Madame Mantalini, ‘this is the young person I
spoke to you about.’
Miss Knag bestowed a reverential smile upon Madame Mantalini, which
she dexterously transformed into a gracious one for Kate, and said that
certainly, although it was a great deal of trouble to have young people
who were wholly unused to the business, still, she was sure the young
person would try to do her best--impressed with which conviction she
(Miss Knag) felt an interest in her, already.