Nicholas Nickleby
very much when anybody was NOT looking; and Mr. Lillyvick going to work
as though with the cool resolve, that since the good things must be paid
for by him, he would leave as little as possible for the Crummleses to
eat up afterwards.
‘It’s very soon done, sir, isn’t it?’ inquired Mr. Folair of the
collector, leaning over the table to address him.
‘What is soon done, sir?’ returned Mr. Lillyvick.
‘The tying up--the fixing oneself with a wife,’ replied Mr. Folair. ‘It
don’t take long, does it?’
‘No, sir,’ replied Mr. Lillyvick, colouring. ‘It does not take long. And
what then, sir?’
‘Oh! nothing,’ said the actor. ‘It don’t take a man long to hang
himself, either, eh? ha, ha!’
Mr. Lillyvick laid down his knife and fork, and looked round the table
with indignant astonishment.
‘To hang himself!’ repeated Mr. Lillyvick.
A profound silence came upon all, for Mr. Lillyvick was dignified beyond
expression.
‘To hang himself!’ cried Mr. Lillyvick again. ‘Is any parallel attempted
to be drawn in this company between matrimony and hanging?’
‘The noose, you know,’ said Mr. Folair, a little crest-fallen.
‘The noose, sir?’ retorted Mr. Lillyvick. ‘Does any man dare to speak to
me of a noose, and Henrietta Pe--’
‘Lillyvick,’ suggested Mr. Crummles.
‘--And Henrietta Lillyvick in the same breath?’ said the collector. ‘In
this house, in the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Crummles, who have brought
up a talented and virtuous family, to be blessings and phenomenons, and
what not, are we to hear talk of nooses?’
‘Folair,’ said Mr. Crummles, deeming it a matter of decency to be
affected by this allusion to himself and partner, ‘I’m astonished at
you.’
‘What are you going on in this way at me for?’ urged the unfortunate
actor. ‘What have I done?’
‘Done, sir!’ cried Mr. Lillyvick, ‘aimed a blow at the whole framework of
society--’
‘And the best and tenderest feelings,’ added Crummles, relapsing into
the old man.
‘And the highest and most estimable of social ties,’ said the collector.
‘Noose! As if one was caught, trapped into the married state, pinned by
the leg, instead of going into it of one’s own accord and glorying in
the act!’
‘I didn’t mean to make it out, that you were caught and trapped, and
pinned by the leg,’ replied the actor. ‘I’m sorry for it; I can’t say
any more.’
‘So you ought to be, sir,’ returned Mr. Lillyvick; ‘and I am glad to hear
that you have enough of feeling left to be so.’
The quarrel appearing to terminate with this reply, Mrs. Lillyvick
considered that the fittest occasion (the attention of the company being
no longer distracted) to burst into tears, and require the assistance of
all four bridesmaids, which was immediately rendered, though not without
some confusion, for the room being small and the table-cloth long, a
whole detachment of plates were swept off the board at the very first
move. Regardless of this circumstance, however, Mrs. Lillyvick refused
to be comforted until the belligerents had passed their words that the
dispute should be carried no further, which, after a sufficient show of
reluctance, they did, and from that time Mr. Folair sat in moody silence,
contenting himself with pinching Nicholas’s leg when anything was said,
and so expressing his contempt both for the speaker and the sentiments
to which he gave utterance.
There were a great number of speeches made; some by Nicholas, and some
by Crummles, and some by the collector; two by the Master Crummleses in
returning thanks for themselves, and one by the phenomenon on behalf
of the bridesmaids, at which Mrs. Crummles shed tears. There was some
singing, too, from Miss Ledrook and Miss Bravassa, and very likely there
might have been more, if the fly-driver, who stopped to drive the happy
pair to the spot where they proposed to take steamboat to Ryde, had
not sent in a peremptory message intimating, that if they didn’t come
directly he should infallibly demand eighteen-pence over and above his
agreement.
This desperate threat effectually broke up the party. After a most
pathetic leave-taking, Mr. Lillyvick and his bride departed for Ryde,
where they were to spend the next two days in profound retirement, and
whither they were accompanied by the infant, who had been appointed
travelling bridesmaid on Mr. Lillyvick’s express stipulation: as the
steamboat people, deceived by her size, would (he had previously
ascertained) transport her at half-price.
As there was no performance that night, Mr. Crummles declared his
intention of keeping it up till everything to drink was disposed of; but
Nicholas having to play Romeo for the first time on the ensuing evening,
contrived to slip away in the midst of a temporary confusion, occasioned
by the unexpected development of strong symptoms of inebriety in the
conduct of Mrs. Grudden.
To this act of desertion he was led, not only by his own inclinations,
but by his anxiety on account of Smike, who, having to sustain the
character of the Apothecary, had been as yet wholly unable to get any
more of the part into his head than the general idea that he was very
hungry, which--perhaps from old recollections--he had acquired with
great aptitude.
‘I don’t know what’s to be done, Smike,’ said Nicholas, laying down the
book. ‘I am afraid you can’t learn it, my poor fellow.’
‘I am afraid not,’ said Smike, shaking his head. ‘I think if you--but
that would give you so much trouble.’
‘What?’ inquired Nicholas. ‘Never mind me.’
‘I think,’ said Smike, ‘if you were to keep saying it to me in little
bits, over and over again, I should be able to recollect it from hearing
you.’
‘Do you think so?’ exclaimed Nicholas. ‘Well said. Let us see who tires
first. Not I, Smike, trust me. Now then. Who calls so loud?’
‘“Who calls so loud?”’ said Smike.
‘“Who calls so loud?”’ repeated Nicholas.
‘“Who calls so loud?”’ cried Smike.
Thus they continued to ask each other who called so loud, over and
over again; and when Smike had that by heart Nicholas went to another
sentence, and then to two at a time, and then to three, and so on, until
at midnight poor Smike found to his unspeakable joy that he really began
to remember something about the text.
Early in the morning they went to it again, and Smike, rendered more
confident by the progress he had already made, got on faster and with
better heart. As soon as he began to acquire the words pretty freely,
Nicholas showed him how he must come in with both hands spread out upon
his stomach, and how he must occasionally rub it, in compliance with the
established form by which people on the stage always denote that they
want something to eat. After the morning’s rehearsal they went to work
again, nor did they stop, except for a hasty dinner, until it was time
to repair to the theatre at night.
Never had master a more anxious, humble, docile pupil. Never had pupil a
more patient, unwearying, considerate, kindhearted master.
As soon as they were dressed, and at every interval when he was not upon
the stage, Nicholas renewed his instructions. They prospered well. The
Romeo was received with hearty plaudits and unbounded favour, and Smike
was pronounced unanimously, alike by audience and actors, the very
prince and prodigy of Apothecaries.
CHAPTER 26
Is fraught with some Danger to Miss Nickleby’s Peace of Mind
The place was a handsome suite of private apartments in Regent Street;
the time was three o’clock in the afternoon to the dull and plodding,
and the first hour of morning to the gay and spirited; the persons were
Lord Frederick Verisopht, and his friend Sir Mulberry Hawk.
These distinguished gentlemen were reclining listlessly on a couple
of sofas, with a table between them, on which were scattered in rich
confusion the materials of an untasted breakfast. Newspapers lay strewn
about the room, but these, like the meal, were neglected and unnoticed;
not, however, because any flow of conversation prevented the attractions
of the journals from being called into request, for not a word was
exchanged between the two, nor was any sound uttered, save when one,
in tossing about to find an easier resting-place for his aching head,
uttered an exclamation of impatience, and seemed for a moment to
communicate a new restlessness to his companion.
These appearances would in themselves have furnished a pretty strong
clue to the extent of the debauch of the previous night, even if there
had not been other indications of the amusements in which it had been
passed. A couple of billiard balls, all mud and dirt, two battered hats,
a champagne bottle with a soiled glove twisted round the neck, to allow
of its being grasped more surely in its capacity of an offensive
weapon; a broken cane; a card-case without the top; an empty purse; a
watch-guard snapped asunder; a handful of silver, mingled with fragments
of half-smoked cigars, and their stale and crumbled ashes;--these, and
many other tokens of riot and disorder, hinted very intelligibly at the
nature of last night’s gentlemanly frolics.
Lord Frederick Verisopht was the first to speak. Dropping his slippered
foot on the ground, and, yawning heavily, he struggled into a sitting
posture, and turned his dull languid eyes towards his friend, to whom he
called in a drowsy voice.
‘Hallo!’ replied Sir Mulberry, turning round.
‘Are we going to lie here all da-a-y?’ said the lord.
‘I don’t know that we’re fit for anything else,’ replied Sir Mulberry;
‘yet awhile, at least. I haven’t a grain of life in me this morning.’
‘Life!’ cried Lord Verisopht. ‘I feel as if there would be nothing so
snug and comfortable as to die at once.’
‘Then why don’t you die?’ said Sir Mulberry.
With which inquiry he turned his face away, and seemed to occupy himself
in an attempt to fall asleep.
His hopeful friend and pupil drew a chair to the breakfast-table, and
essayed to eat; but, finding that impossible, lounged to the window,
then loitered up and down the room with his hand to his fevered head,
and finally threw himself again on his sofa, and roused his friend once
more.
‘What the devil’s the matter?’ groaned Sir Mulberry, sitting upright on
the couch.
Although Sir Mulberry said this with sufficient ill-humour, he did
not seem to feel himself quite at liberty to remain silent; for, after
stretching himself very often, and declaring with a shiver that it
was ‘infernal cold,’ he made an experiment at the breakfast-table, and
proving more successful in it than his less-seasoned friend, remained
there.
‘Suppose,’ said Sir Mulberry, pausing with a morsel on the point of his
fork, ‘suppose we go back to the subject of little Nickleby, eh?’
‘Which little Nickleby; the money-lender or the ga-a-l?’ asked Lord
Verisopht.
‘You take me, I see,’ replied Sir Mulberry. ‘The girl, of course.’
‘You promised me you’d find her out,’ said Lord Verisopht.
‘So I did,’ rejoined his friend; ‘but I have thought further of the
matter since then. You distrust me in the business--you shall find her
out yourself.’
‘Na-ay,’ remonstrated Lord Verisopht.
‘But I say yes,’ returned his friend. ‘You shall find her out yourself.
Don’t think that I mean, when you can--I know as well as you that if I
did, you could never get sight of her without me. No. I say you shall
find her out--SHALL--and I’ll put you in the way.’
‘Now, curse me, if you ain’t a real, deyvlish, downright, thorough-paced
friend,’ said the young lord, on whom this speech had produced a most
reviving effect.
‘I’ll tell you how,’ said Sir Mulberry. ‘She was at that dinner as a
bait for you.’
‘No!’ cried the young lord. ‘What the dey--’
‘As a bait for you,’ repeated his friend; ‘old Nickleby told me so
himself.’
‘What a fine old cock it is!’ exclaimed Lord Verisopht; ‘a noble
rascal!’