Nicholas Nickleby
‘The infant will accompany her,’ said Mr. Crummles. ‘The moment it was
suggested to me, I gave permission for the infant to go. There will not
be the smallest impropriety--Miss Snevellicci, sir, is the very soul
of honour. It would be of material service--the gentleman from
London--author of the new piece--actor in the new piece--first
appearance on any boards--it would lead to a great bespeak, Mr. Johnson.’
‘I am very sorry to throw a damp upon the prospects of anybody, and
more especially a lady,’ replied Nicholas; ‘but really I must decidedly
object to making one of the canvassing party.’
‘What does Mr. Johnson say, Vincent?’ inquired a voice close to his ear;
and, looking round, he found Mrs. Crummles and Miss Snevellicci herself
standing behind him.
‘He has some objection, my dear,’ replied Mr. Crummles, looking at
Nicholas.
‘Objection!’ exclaimed Mrs. Crummles. ‘Can it be possible?’
‘Oh, I hope not!’ cried Miss Snevellicci. ‘You surely are not so
cruel--oh, dear me!--Well, I--to think of that now, after all one’s
looking forward to it!’
‘Mr. Johnson will not persist, my dear,’ said Mrs. Crummles. ‘Think better
of him than to suppose it. Gallantry, humanity, all the best feelings of
his nature, must be enlisted in this interesting cause.’
‘Which moves even a manager,’ said Mr. Crummles, smiling.
‘And a manager’s wife,’ added Mrs. Crummles, in her accustomed tragedy
tones. ‘Come, come, you will relent, I know you will.’
‘It is not in my nature,’ said Nicholas, moved by these appeals, ‘to
resist any entreaty, unless it is to do something positively wrong; and,
beyond a feeling of pride, I know nothing which should prevent my doing
this. I know nobody here, and nobody knows me. So be it then. I yield.’
Miss Snevellicci was at once overwhelmed with blushes and expressions of
gratitude, of which latter commodity neither Mr. nor Mrs. Crummles was by
any means sparing. It was arranged that Nicholas should call upon her,
at her lodgings, at eleven next morning, and soon after they parted:
he to return home to his authorship: Miss Snevellicci to dress for the
after-piece: and the disinterested manager and his wife to discuss the
probable gains of the forthcoming bespeak, of which they were to have
two-thirds of the profits by solemn treaty of agreement.
At the stipulated hour next morning, Nicholas repaired to the lodgings
of Miss Snevellicci, which were in a place called Lombard Street, at
the house of a tailor. A strong smell of ironing pervaded the little
passage; and the tailor’s daughter, who opened the door, appeared in
that flutter of spirits which is so often attendant upon the periodical
getting up of a family’s linen.
‘Miss Snevellicci lives here, I believe?’ said Nicholas, when the door
was opened.
The tailor’s daughter replied in the affirmative.
‘Will you have the goodness to let her know that Mr. Johnson is here?’
said Nicholas.
‘Oh, if you please, you’re to come upstairs,’ replied the tailor’s
daughter, with a smile.
Nicholas followed the young lady, and was shown into a small apartment
on the first floor, communicating with a back-room; in which, as he
judged from a certain half-subdued clinking sound, as of cups and
saucers, Miss Snevellicci was then taking her breakfast in bed.
‘You’re to wait, if you please,’ said the tailor’s daughter, after a
short period of absence, during which the clinking in the back-room had
ceased, and been succeeded by whispering--‘She won’t be long.’
As she spoke, she pulled up the window-blind, and having by this means
(as she thought) diverted Mr. Johnson’s attention from the room to the
street, caught up some articles which were airing on the fender, and had
very much the appearance of stockings, and darted off.
As there were not many objects of interest outside the window, Nicholas
looked about the room with more curiosity than he might otherwise have
bestowed upon it. On the sofa lay an old guitar, several thumbed
pieces of music, and a scattered litter of curl-papers; together with a
confused heap of play-bills, and a pair of soiled white satin shoes
with large blue rosettes. Hanging over the back of a chair was a
half-finished muslin apron with little pockets ornamented with red
ribbons, such as waiting-women wear on the stage, and (by consequence)
are never seen with anywhere else. In one corner stood the diminutive
pair of top-boots in which Miss Snevellicci was accustomed to enact the
little jockey, and, folded on a chair hard by, was a small parcel, which
bore a very suspicious resemblance to the companion smalls.
But the most interesting object of all was, perhaps, the open scrapbook,
displayed in the midst of some theatrical duodecimos that were strewn
upon the table; and pasted into which scrapbook were various critical
notices of Miss Snevellicci’s acting, extracted from different
provincial journals, together with one poetic address in her honour,
commencing--
Sing, God of Love, and tell me in what dearth
Thrice-gifted SNEVELLICCI came on earth,
To thrill us with her smile, her tear, her eye,
Sing, God of Love, and tell me quickly why.
Besides this effusion, there were innumerable complimentary allusions,
also extracted from newspapers, such as--‘We observe from an
advertisement in another part of our paper of today, that the charming
and highly-talented Miss Snevellicci takes her benefit on Wednesday,
for which occasion she has put forth a bill of fare that might kindle
exhilaration in the breast of a misanthrope. In the confidence that our
fellow-townsmen have not lost that high appreciation of public utility
and private worth, for which they have long been so pre-eminently
distinguished, we predict that this charming actress will be greeted
with a bumper.’ ‘To Correspondents.--J.S. is misinformed when he
supposes that the highly-gifted and beautiful Miss Snevellicci, nightly
captivating all hearts at our pretty and commodious little theatre,
is NOT the same lady to whom the young gentleman of immense fortune,
residing within a hundred miles of the good city of York, lately made
honourable proposals. We have reason to know that Miss Snevellicci IS
the lady who was implicated in that mysterious and romantic affair, and
whose conduct on that occasion did no less honour to her head and heart,
than do her histrionic triumphs to her brilliant genius.’ A copious
assortment of such paragraphs as these, with long bills of benefits
all ending with ‘Come Early’, in large capitals, formed the principal
contents of Miss Snevellicci’s scrapbook.
Nicholas had read a great many of these scraps, and was absorbed in a
circumstantial and melancholy account of the train of events which had
led to Miss Snevellicci’s spraining her ankle by slipping on a piece of
orange-peel flung by a monster in human form, (so the paper said,) upon
the stage at Winchester,--when that young lady herself, attired in the
coal-scuttle bonnet and walking-dress complete, tripped into the room,
with a thousand apologies for having detained him so long after the
appointed time.
‘But really,’ said Miss Snevellicci, ‘my darling Led, who lives with me
here, was taken so very ill in the night that I thought she would have
expired in my arms.’
‘Such a fate is almost to be envied,’ returned Nicholas, ‘but I am very
sorry to hear it nevertheless.’
‘What a creature you are to flatter!’ said Miss Snevellicci, buttoning
her glove in much confusion.
‘If it be flattery to admire your charms and accomplishments,’ rejoined
Nicholas, laying his hand upon the scrapbook, ‘you have better specimens
of it here.’
‘Oh you cruel creature, to read such things as those! I’m almost
ashamed to look you in the face afterwards, positively I am,’ said Miss
Snevellicci, seizing the book and putting it away in a closet. ‘How
careless of Led! How could she be so naughty!’
‘I thought you had kindly left it here, on purpose for me to read,’ said
Nicholas. And really it did seem possible.
‘I wouldn’t have had you see it for the world!’ rejoined Miss
Snevellicci. ‘I never was so vexed--never! But she is such a careless
thing, there’s no trusting her.’
The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of the phenomenon,
who had discreetly remained in the bedroom up to this moment, and now
presented herself, with much grace and lightness, bearing in her hand
a very little green parasol with a broad fringe border, and no handle.
After a few words of course, they sallied into the street.
The phenomenon was rather a troublesome companion, for first the
right sandal came down, and then the left, and these mischances being
repaired, one leg of the little white trousers was discovered to be
longer than the other; besides these accidents, the green parasol
was dropped down an iron grating, and only fished up again with great
difficulty and by dint of much exertion. However, it was impossible to
scold her, as she was the manager’s daughter, so Nicholas took it all in
perfect good humour, and walked on, with Miss Snevellicci, arm-in-arm on
one side, and the offending infant on the other.
The first house to which they bent their steps, was situated in
a terrace of respectable appearance. Miss Snevellicci’s modest
double-knock was answered by a foot-boy, who, in reply to her inquiry
whether Mrs. Curdle was at home, opened his eyes very wide, grinned very
much, and said he didn’t know, but he’d inquire. With this he
showed them into a parlour where he kept them waiting, until the two
women-servants had repaired thither, under false pretences, to see the
play-actors; and having compared notes with them in the passage, and
joined in a vast quantity of whispering and giggling, he at length went
upstairs with Miss Snevellicci’s name.
Now, Mrs. Curdle was supposed, by those who were best informed on
such points, to possess quite the London taste in matters relating to
literature and the drama; and as to Mr. Curdle, he had written a pamphlet
of sixty-four pages, post octavo, on the character of the Nurse’s
deceased husband in Romeo and Juliet, with an inquiry whether he really
had been a ‘merry man’ in his lifetime, or whether it was merely his
widow’s affectionate partiality that induced her so to report him. He
had likewise proved, that by altering the received mode of punctuation,
any one of Shakespeare’s plays could be made quite different, and the
sense completely changed; it is needless to say, therefore, that he was
a great critic, and a very profound and most original thinker.
‘Well, Miss Snevellicci,’ said Mrs. Curdle, entering the parlour, ‘and
how do YOU do?’
Miss Snevellicci made a graceful obeisance, and hoped Mrs. Curdle was
well, as also Mr. Curdle, who at the same time appeared. Mrs. Curdle was
dressed in a morning wrapper, with a little cap stuck upon the top
of her head. Mr. Curdle wore a loose robe on his back, and his right
forefinger on his forehead after the portraits of Sterne, to whom
somebody or other had once said he bore a striking resemblance.
‘I venture to call, for the purpose of asking whether you would put your
name to my bespeak, ma’am,’ said Miss Snevellicci, producing documents.
‘Oh! I really don’t know what to say,’ replied Mrs. Curdle. ‘It’s not as
if the theatre was in its high and palmy days--you needn’t stand, Miss
Snevellicci--the drama is gone, perfectly gone.’
‘As an exquisite embodiment of the poet’s visions, and a realisation of
human intellectuality, gilding with refulgent light our dreamy moments,
and laying open a new and magic world before the mental eye, the drama
is gone, perfectly gone,’ said Mr. Curdle.
‘What man is there, now living, who can present before us all those
changing and prismatic colours with which the character of Hamlet is
invested?’ exclaimed Mrs. Curdle.