Nicholas Nickleby
I should be a blind and senseless beast,’ rejoined Nicholas. ‘Let me ask
you a question while I think of it, and there is no one by,’ he added,
looking him steadily in the face. ‘Have you a good memory?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Smike, shaking his head sorrowfully. ‘I think I had
once; but it’s all gone now--all gone.’
‘Why do you think you had once?’ asked Nicholas, turning quickly upon
him as though the answer in some way helped out the purport of his
question.
‘Because I could remember, when I was a child,’ said Smike, ‘but that is
very, very long ago, or at least it seems so. I was always confused
and giddy at that place you took me from; and could never remember,
and sometimes couldn’t even understand, what they said to me. I--let me
see--let me see!’
‘You are wandering now,’ said Nicholas, touching him on the arm.
‘No,’ replied his companion, with a vacant look ‘I was only thinking
how--’ He shivered involuntarily as he spoke.
‘Think no more of that place, for it is all over,’ retorted Nicholas,
fixing his eyes full upon that of his companion, which was fast settling
into an unmeaning stupefied gaze, once habitual to him, and common even
then. ‘What of the first day you went to Yorkshire?’
‘Eh!’ cried the lad.
‘That was before you began to lose your recollection, you know,’ said
Nicholas quietly. ‘Was the weather hot or cold?’
‘Wet,’ replied the boy. ‘Very wet. I have always said, when it has
rained hard, that it was like the night I came: and they used to crowd
round and laugh to see me cry when the rain fell heavily. It was like a
child, they said, and that made me think of it more. I turned cold all
over sometimes, for I could see myself as I was then, coming in at the
very same door.’
‘As you were then,’ repeated Nicholas, with assumed carelessness; ‘how
was that?’
‘Such a little creature,’ said Smike, ‘that they might have had pity and
mercy upon me, only to remember it.’
‘You didn’t find your way there, alone!’ remarked Nicholas.
‘No,’ rejoined Smike, ‘oh no.’
‘Who was with you?’
‘A man--a dark, withered man. I have heard them say so, at the school,
and I remembered that before. I was glad to leave him, I was afraid of
him; but they made me more afraid of them, and used me harder too.’
‘Look at me,’ said Nicholas, wishing to attract his full attention.
‘There; don’t turn away. Do you remember no woman, no kind woman, who
hung over you once, and kissed your lips, and called you her child?’
‘No,’ said the poor creature, shaking his head, ‘no, never.’
‘Nor any house but that house in Yorkshire?’
‘No,’ rejoined the youth, with a melancholy look; ‘a room--I remember
I slept in a room, a large lonesome room at the top of a house, where
there was a trap-door in the ceiling. I have covered my head with the
clothes often, not to see it, for it frightened me: a young child with
no one near at night: and I used to wonder what was on the other side.
There was a clock too, an old clock, in one corner. I remember that.
I have never forgotten that room; for when I have terrible dreams, it
comes back, just as it was. I see things and people in it that I had
never seen then, but there is the room just as it used to be; THAT never
changes.’
‘Will you let me take the bundle now?’ asked Nicholas, abruptly changing
the theme.
‘No,’ said Smike, ‘no. Come, let us walk on.’
He quickened his pace as he said this, apparently under the impression
that they had been standing still during the whole of the previous
dialogue. Nicholas marked him closely, and every word of this
conversation remained upon his memory.
It was, by this time, within an hour of noon, and although a dense
vapour still enveloped the city they had left, as if the very breath of
its busy people hung over their schemes of gain and profit, and found
greater attraction there than in the quiet region above, in the open
country it was clear and fair. Occasionally, in some low spots they
came upon patches of mist which the sun had not yet driven from their
strongholds; but these were soon passed, and as they laboured up the
hills beyond, it was pleasant to look down, and see how the sluggish
mass rolled heavily off, before the cheering influence of day. A broad,
fine, honest sun lighted up the green pastures and dimpled water
with the semblance of summer, while it left the travellers all the
invigorating freshness of that early time of year. The ground seemed
elastic under their feet; the sheep-bells were music to their ears; and
exhilarated by exercise, and stimulated by hope, they pushed onward with
the strength of lions.
The day wore on, and all these bright colours subsided, and assumed
a quieter tint, like young hopes softened down by time, or youthful
features by degrees resolving into the calm and serenity of age. But
they were scarcely less beautiful in their slow decline, than they had
been in their prime; for nature gives to every time and season some
beauties of its own; and from morning to night, as from the cradle to
the grave, is but a succession of changes so gentle and easy, that we
can scarcely mark their progress.
To Godalming they came at last, and here they bargained for two humble
beds, and slept soundly. In the morning they were astir: though
not quite so early as the sun: and again afoot; if not with all the
freshness of yesterday, still, with enough of hope and spirit to bear
them cheerily on.
It was a harder day’s journey than yesterday’s, for there were long and
weary hills to climb; and in journeys, as in life, it is a great deal
easier to go down hill than up. However, they kept on, with unabated
perseverance, and the hill has not yet lifted its face to heaven that
perseverance will not gain the summit of at last.
They walked upon the rim of the Devil’s Punch Bowl; and Smike listened
with greedy interest as Nicholas read the inscription upon the stone
which, reared upon that wild spot, tells of a murder committed there by
night. The grass on which they stood, had once been dyed with gore;
and the blood of the murdered man had run down, drop by drop, into
the hollow which gives the place its name. ‘The Devil’s Bowl,’ thought
Nicholas, as he looked into the void, ‘never held fitter liquor than
that!’
Onward they kept, with steady purpose, and entered at length upon a wide
and spacious tract of downs, with every variety of little hill and
plain to change their verdant surface. Here, there shot up, almost
perpendicularly, into the sky, a height so steep, as to be hardly
accessible to any but the sheep and goats that fed upon its sides, and
there, stood a mound of green, sloping and tapering off so delicately,
and merging so gently into the level ground, that you could scarce
define its limits. Hills swelling above each other; and undulations
shapely and uncouth, smooth and rugged, graceful and grotesque, thrown
negligently side by side, bounded the view in each direction; while
frequently, with unexpected noise, there uprose from the ground a
flight of crows, who, cawing and wheeling round the nearest hills, as if
uncertain of their course, suddenly poised themselves upon the wing and
skimmed down the long vista of some opening valley, with the speed of
light itself.
By degrees, the prospect receded more and more on either hand, and as
they had been shut out from rich and extensive scenery, so they emerged
once again upon the open country. The knowledge that they were drawing
near their place of destination, gave them fresh courage to proceed; but
the way had been difficult, and they had loitered on the road, and Smike
was tired. Thus, twilight had already closed in, when they turned
off the path to the door of a roadside inn, yet twelve miles short of
Portsmouth.
‘Twelve miles,’ said Nicholas, leaning with both hands on his stick, and
looking doubtfully at Smike.
‘Twelve long miles,’ repeated the landlord.
‘Is it a good road?’ inquired Nicholas.
‘Very bad,’ said the landlord. As of course, being a landlord, he would
say.
‘I want to get on,’ observed Nicholas, hesitating. ‘I scarcely know what
to do.’
‘Don’t let me influence you,’ rejoined the landlord. ‘I wouldn’t go on
if it was me.’
‘Wouldn’t you?’ asked Nicholas, with the same uncertainty.
‘Not if I knew when I was well off,’ said the landlord. And having said
it he pulled up his apron, put his hands into his pockets, and, taking
a step or two outside the door, looked down the dark road with an
assumption of great indifference.
A glance at the toil-worn face of Smike determined Nicholas, so without
any further consideration he made up his mind to stay where he was.
The landlord led them into the kitchen, and as there was a good fire he
remarked that it was very cold. If there had happened to be a bad one he
would have observed that it was very warm.
‘What can you give us for supper?’ was Nicholas’s natural question.
‘Why--what would you like?’ was the landlord’s no less natural answer.
Nicholas suggested cold meat, but there was no cold meat--poached eggs,
but there were no eggs--mutton chops, but there wasn’t a mutton chop
within three miles, though there had been more last week than they knew
what to do with, and would be an extraordinary supply the day after
tomorrow.
‘Then,’ said Nicholas, ‘I must leave it entirely to you, as I would have
done, at first, if you had allowed me.’
‘Why, then I’ll tell you what,’ rejoined the landlord. ‘There’s a
gentleman in the parlour that’s ordered a hot beef-steak pudding and
potatoes, at nine. There’s more of it than he can manage, and I have
very little doubt that if I ask leave, you can sup with him. I’ll do
that, in a minute.’
‘No, no,’ said Nicholas, detaining him. ‘I would rather not. I--at
least--pshaw! why cannot I speak out? Here; you see that I am travelling
in a very humble manner, and have made my way hither on foot. It is more
than probable, I think, that the gentleman may not relish my company;
and although I am the dusty figure you see, I am too proud to thrust
myself into his.’
‘Lord love you,’ said the landlord, ‘it’s only Mr. Crummles; HE isn’t
particular.’
‘Is he not?’ asked Nicholas, on whose mind, to tell the truth, the
prospect of the savoury pudding was making some impression.
‘Not he,’ replied the landlord. ‘He’ll like your way of talking, I know.
But we’ll soon see all about that. Just wait a minute.’
The landlord hurried into the parlour, without staying for further
permission, nor did Nicholas strive to prevent him: wisely considering
that supper, under the circumstances, was too serious a matter to be
trifled with. It was not long before the host returned, in a condition
of much excitement.
‘All right,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I knew he would. You’ll see
something rather worth seeing, in there. Ecod, how they are a-going of
it!’
There was no time to inquire to what this exclamation, which was
delivered in a very rapturous tone, referred; for he had already thrown
open the door of the room; into which Nicholas, followed by Smike with
the bundle on his shoulder (he carried it about with him as vigilantly
as if it had been a sack of gold), straightway repaired.
Nicholas was prepared for something odd, but not for something quite so
odd as the sight he encountered. At the upper end of the room, were a
couple of boys, one of them very tall and the other very short, both
dressed as sailors--or at least as theatrical sailors, with belts,
buckles, pigtails, and pistols complete--fighting what is called in
play-bills a terrific combat, with two of those short broad-swords with
basket hilts which are commonly used at our minor theatres. The short
boy had gained a great advantage over the tall boy, who was reduced to
mortal strait, and both were overlooked by a large heavy man, perched