Nicholas Nickleby
cabbage, and offered it to the maiden, who at first wouldn’t have it,
but on the savage shedding tears relented. Then the savage jumped
for joy; then the maiden jumped for rapture at the sweet smell of
the pickled cabbage. Then the savage and the maiden danced violently
together, and, finally, the savage dropped down on one knee, and the
maiden stood on one leg upon his other knee; thus concluding the ballet,
and leaving the spectators in a state of pleasing uncertainty, whether
she would ultimately marry the savage, or return to her friends.
‘Very well indeed,’ said Mr. Crummles; ‘bravo!’
‘Bravo!’ cried Nicholas, resolved to make the best of everything.
‘Beautiful!’
‘This, sir,’ said Mr. Vincent Crummles, bringing the maiden forward,
‘this is the infant phenomenon--Miss Ninetta Crummles.’
‘Your daughter?’ inquired Nicholas.
‘My daughter--my daughter,’ replied Mr. Vincent Crummles; ‘the idol of
every place we go into, sir. We have had complimentary letters about
this girl, sir, from the nobility and gentry of almost every town in
England.’
‘I am not surprised at that,’ said Nicholas; ‘she must be quite a
natural genius.’
‘Quite a--!’ Mr. Crummles stopped: language was not powerful enough to
describe the infant phenomenon. ‘I’ll tell you what, sir,’ he said;
‘the talent of this child is not to be imagined. She must be seen,
sir--seen--to be ever so faintly appreciated. There; go to your mother,
my dear.’
‘May I ask how old she is?’ inquired Nicholas.
‘You may, sir,’ replied Mr. Crummles, looking steadily in his
questioner’s face, as some men do when they have doubts about being
implicitly believed in what they are going to say. ‘She is ten years of
age, sir.’
‘Not more!’
‘Not a day.’
‘Dear me!’ said Nicholas, ‘it’s extraordinary.’
It was; for the infant phenomenon, though of short stature, had a
comparatively aged countenance, and had moreover been precisely the
same age--not perhaps to the full extent of the memory of the oldest
inhabitant, but certainly for five good years. But she had been kept up
late every night, and put upon an unlimited allowance of gin-and-water
from infancy, to prevent her growing tall, and perhaps this system
of training had produced in the infant phenomenon these additional
phenomena.
While this short dialogue was going on, the gentleman who had enacted
the savage, came up, with his walking shoes on his feet, and his
slippers in his hand, to within a few paces, as if desirous to join in
the conversation. Deeming this a good opportunity, he put in his word.
‘Talent there, sir!’ said the savage, nodding towards Miss Crummles.
Nicholas assented.
‘Ah!’ said the actor, setting his teeth together, and drawing in his
breath with a hissing sound, ‘she oughtn’t to be in the provinces, she
oughtn’t.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked the manager.
‘I mean to say,’ replied the other, warmly, ‘that she is too good for
country boards, and that she ought to be in one of the large houses in
London, or nowhere; and I tell you more, without mincing the matter,
that if it wasn’t for envy and jealousy in some quarter that you know
of, she would be. Perhaps you’ll introduce me here, Mr. Crummles.’
‘Mr. Folair,’ said the manager, presenting him to Nicholas.
‘Happy to know you, sir.’ Mr. Folair touched the brim of his hat with his
forefinger, and then shook hands. ‘A recruit, sir, I understand?’
‘An unworthy one,’ replied Nicholas.
‘Did you ever see such a set-out as that?’ whispered the actor, drawing
him away, as Crummles left them to speak to his wife.
‘As what?’
Mr. Folair made a funny face from his pantomime collection, and pointed
over his shoulder.
‘You don’t mean the infant phenomenon?’
‘Infant humbug, sir,’ replied Mr. Folair. ‘There isn’t a female child of
common sharpness in a charity school, that couldn’t do better than that.
She may thank her stars she was born a manager’s daughter.’
‘You seem to take it to heart,’ observed Nicholas, with a smile.
‘Yes, by Jove, and well I may,’ said Mr. Folair, drawing his arm through
his, and walking him up and down the stage. ‘Isn’t it enough to make a
man crusty to see that little sprawler put up in the best business every
night, and actually keeping money out of the house, by being forced
down the people’s throats, while other people are passed over? Isn’t
it extraordinary to see a man’s confounded family conceit blinding him,
even to his own interest? Why I KNOW of fifteen and sixpence that came
to Southampton one night last month, to see me dance the Highland Fling;
and what’s the consequence? I’ve never been put up in it since--never
once--while the “infant phenomenon” has been grinning through artificial
flowers at five people and a baby in the pit, and two boys in the
gallery, every night.’
‘If I may judge from what I have seen of you,’ said Nicholas, ‘you must
be a valuable member of the company.’
‘Oh!’ replied Mr. Folair, beating his slippers together, to knock the
dust out; ‘I CAN come it pretty well--nobody better, perhaps, in my own
line--but having such business as one gets here, is like putting lead on
one’s feet instead of chalk, and dancing in fetters without the credit
of it. Holloa, old fellow, how are you?’
The gentleman addressed in these latter words was a dark-complexioned
man, inclining indeed to sallow, with long thick black hair, and very
evident inclinations (although he was close shaved) of a stiff beard,
and whiskers of the same deep shade. His age did not appear to exceed
thirty, though many at first sight would have considered him much older,
as his face was long, and very pale, from the constant application of
stage paint. He wore a checked shirt, an old green coat with new gilt
buttons, a neckerchief of broad red and green stripes, and full blue
trousers; he carried, too, a common ash walking-stick, apparently
more for show than use, as he flourished it about, with the hooked end
downwards, except when he raised it for a few seconds, and throwing
himself into a fencing attitude, made a pass or two at the side-scenes,
or at any other object, animate or inanimate, that chanced to afford him
a pretty good mark at the moment.
‘Well, Tommy,’ said this gentleman, making a thrust at his friend, who
parried it dexterously with his slipper, ‘what’s the news?’
‘A new appearance, that’s all,’ replied Mr. Folair, looking at Nicholas.
‘Do the honours, Tommy, do the honours,’ said the other gentleman,
tapping him reproachfully on the crown of the hat with his stick.
‘This is Mr. Lenville, who does our first tragedy, Mr. Johnson,’ said the
pantomimist.
‘Except when old bricks and mortar takes it into his head to do it
himself, you should add, Tommy,’ remarked Mr. Lenville. ‘You know who
bricks and mortar is, I suppose, sir?’
‘I do not, indeed,’ replied Nicholas.
‘We call Crummles that, because his style of acting is rather in the
heavy and ponderous way,’ said Mr. Lenville. ‘I mustn’t be cracking jokes
though, for I’ve got a part of twelve lengths here, which I must be
up in tomorrow night, and I haven’t had time to look at it yet; I’m a
confounded quick study, that’s one comfort.’
Consoling himself with this reflection, Mr. Lenville drew from his coat
pocket a greasy and crumpled manuscript, and, having made another pass
at his friend, proceeded to walk to and fro, conning it to himself and
indulging occasionally in such appropriate action as his imagination and
the text suggested.
A pretty general muster of the company had by this time taken place;
for besides Mr. Lenville and his friend Tommy, there were present, a slim
young gentleman with weak eyes, who played the low-spirited lovers
and sang tenor songs, and who had come arm-in-arm with the comic
countryman--a man with a turned-up nose, large mouth, broad face, and
staring eyes. Making himself very amiable to the infant phenomenon, was
an inebriated elderly gentleman in the last depths of shabbiness, who
played the calm and virtuous old men; and paying especial court to Mrs
Crummles was another elderly gentleman, a shade more respectable, who
played the irascible old men--those funny fellows who have nephews in
the army and perpetually run about with thick sticks to compel them to
marry heiresses. Besides these, there was a roving-looking person in
a rough great-coat, who strode up and down in front of the lamps,
flourishing a dress cane, and rattling away, in an undertone, with great
vivacity for the amusement of an ideal audience. He was not quite so
young as he had been, and his figure was rather running to seed; but
there was an air of exaggerated gentility about him, which bespoke the
hero of swaggering comedy. There was, also, a little group of three or
four young men with lantern jaws and thick eyebrows, who were conversing
in one corner; but they seemed to be of secondary importance, and
laughed and talked together without attracting any attention.
The ladies were gathered in a little knot by themselves round the
rickety table before mentioned. There was Miss Snevellicci--who could
do anything, from a medley dance to Lady Macbeth, and also always played
some part in blue silk knee-smalls at her benefit--glancing, from the
depths of her coal-scuttle straw bonnet, at Nicholas, and affecting
to be absorbed in the recital of a diverting story to her friend Miss
Ledrook, who had brought her work, and was making up a ruff in the most
natural manner possible. There was Miss Belvawney--who seldom aspired
to speaking parts, and usually went on as a page in white silk hose, to
stand with one leg bent, and contemplate the audience, or to go in and
out after Mr. Crummles in stately tragedy--twisting up the ringlets of
the beautiful Miss Bravassa, who had once had her likeness taken ‘in
character’ by an engraver’s apprentice, whereof impressions were hung up
for sale in the pastry-cook’s window, and the greengrocer’s, and at the
circulating library, and the box-office, whenever the announce bills
came out for her annual night. There was Mrs. Lenville, in a very limp
bonnet and veil, decidedly in that way in which she would wish to be if
she truly loved Mr. Lenville; there was Miss Gazingi, with an imitation
ermine boa tied in a loose knot round her neck, flogging Mr. Crummles,
junior, with both ends, in fun. Lastly, there was Mrs. Grudden in a brown
cloth pelisse and a beaver bonnet, who assisted Mrs. Crummles in her
domestic affairs, and took money at the doors, and dressed the ladies,
and swept the house, and held the prompt book when everybody else was on
for the last scene, and acted any kind of part on any emergency without
ever learning it, and was put down in the bills under any name or names
whatever, that occurred to Mr. Crummles as looking well in print.
Mr. Folair having obligingly confided these particulars to Nicholas, left
him to mingle with his fellows; the work of personal introduction was
completed by Mr. Vincent Crummles, who publicly heralded the new actor as
a prodigy of genius and learning.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Miss Snevellicci, sidling towards Nicholas,
‘but did you ever play at Canterbury?’
‘I never did,’ replied Nicholas.
‘I recollect meeting a gentleman at Canterbury,’ said Miss Snevellicci,
‘only for a few moments, for I was leaving the company as he joined it,
so like you that I felt almost certain it was the same.’
‘I see you now for the first time,’ rejoined Nicholas with all due
gallantry. ‘I am sure I never saw you before; I couldn’t have forgotten
it.’
‘Oh, I’m sure--it’s very flattering of you to say so,’ retorted Miss
Snevellicci with a graceful bend. ‘Now I look at you again, I see that
the gentleman at Canterbury hadn’t the same eyes as you--you’ll think me
very foolish for taking notice of such things, won’t you?’