Treats of the Company of Mr. Vincent Crummles, and of his Affairs,
Domestic and Theatrical
As Mr. Crummles had a strange four-legged animal in the inn stables,
which he called a pony, and a vehicle of unknown design, on which he
bestowed the appellation of a four-wheeled phaeton, Nicholas proceeded
on his journey next morning with greater ease than he had expected: the
manager and himself occupying the front seat: and the Master Crummleses
and Smike being packed together behind, in company with a wicker basket
defended from wet by a stout oilskin, in which were the broad-swords,
pistols, pigtails, nautical costumes, and other professional necessaries
of the aforesaid young gentlemen.
The pony took his time upon the road, and--possibly in consequence
of his theatrical education--evinced, every now and then, a strong
inclination to lie down. However, Mr. Vincent Crummles kept him up pretty
well, by jerking the rein, and plying the whip; and when these means
failed, and the animal came to a stand, the elder Master Crummles got
out and kicked him. By dint of these encouragements, he was persuaded
to move from time to time, and they jogged on (as Mr. Crummles truly
observed) very comfortably for all parties.
‘He’s a good pony at bottom,’ said Mr. Crummles, turning to Nicholas.
He might have been at bottom, but he certainly was not at top, seeing
that his coat was of the roughest and most ill-favoured kind. So,
Nicholas merely observed that he shouldn’t wonder if he was.
‘Many and many is the circuit this pony has gone,’ said Mr. Crummles,
flicking him skilfully on the eyelid for old acquaintance’ sake. ‘He is
quite one of us. His mother was on the stage.’
‘Was she?’ rejoined Nicholas.
‘She ate apple-pie at a circus for upwards of fourteen years,’ said the
manager; ‘fired pistols, and went to bed in a nightcap; and, in short,
took the low comedy entirely. His father was a dancer.’
‘Was he at all distinguished?’
‘Not very,’ said the manager. ‘He was rather a low sort of pony. The
fact is, he had been originally jobbed out by the day, and he never
quite got over his old habits. He was clever in melodrama too, but too
broad--too broad. When the mother died, he took the port-wine business.’
‘The port-wine business!’ cried Nicholas.
‘Drinking port-wine with the clown,’ said the manager; ‘but he was
greedy, and one night bit off the bowl of the glass, and choked himself,
so his vulgarity was the death of him at last.’
The descendant of this ill-starred animal requiring increased attention
from Mr. Crummles as he progressed in his day’s work, that gentleman had
very little time for conversation. Nicholas was thus left at leisure
to entertain himself with his own thoughts, until they arrived at the
drawbridge at Portsmouth, when Mr. Crummles pulled up.
‘We’ll get down here,’ said the manager, ‘and the boys will take him
round to the stable, and call at my lodgings with the luggage. You had
better let yours be taken there, for the present.’
Thanking Mr. Vincent Crummles for his obliging offer, Nicholas jumped
out, and, giving Smike his arm, accompanied the manager up High Street
on their way to the theatre; feeling nervous and uncomfortable enough at
the prospect of an immediate introduction to a scene so new to him.
They passed a great many bills, pasted against the walls and displayed
in windows, wherein the names of Mr. Vincent Crummles, Mrs. Vincent
Crummles, Master Crummles, Master P. Crummles, and Miss Crummles, were
printed in very large letters, and everything else in very small ones;
and, turning at length into an entry, in which was a strong smell of
orange-peel and lamp-oil, with an under-current of sawdust, groped their
way through a dark passage, and, descending a step or two, threaded a
little maze of canvas screens and paint pots, and emerged upon the stage
of the Portsmouth Theatre.
‘Here we are,’ said Mr. Crummles.
It was not very light, but Nicholas found himself close to the first
entrance on the prompt side, among bare walls, dusty scenes, mildewed
clouds, heavily daubed draperies, and dirty floors. He looked about him;
ceiling, pit, boxes, gallery, orchestra, fittings, and decorations of
every kind,--all looked coarse, cold, gloomy, and wretched.
‘Is this a theatre?’ whispered Smike, in amazement; ‘I thought it was a
blaze of light and finery.’
‘Why, so it is,’ replied Nicholas, hardly less surprised; ‘but not by
day, Smike--not by day.’
The manager’s voice recalled him from a more careful inspection of the
building, to the opposite side of the proscenium, where, at a small
mahogany table with rickety legs and of an oblong shape, sat a stout,
portly female, apparently between forty and fifty, in a tarnished silk
cloak, with her bonnet dangling by the strings in her hand, and her hair
(of which she had a great quantity) braided in a large festoon over each
temple.
‘Mr. Johnson,’ said the manager (for Nicholas had given the name
which Newman Noggs had bestowed upon him in his conversation with Mrs
Kenwigs), ‘let me introduce Mrs. Vincent Crummles.’
‘I am glad to see you, sir,’ said Mrs. Vincent Crummles, in a sepulchral
voice. ‘I am very glad to see you, and still more happy to hail you as a
promising member of our corps.’
The lady shook Nicholas by the hand as she addressed him in these terms;
he saw it was a large one, but had not expected quite such an iron grip
as that with which she honoured him.
‘And this,’ said the lady, crossing to Smike, as tragic actresses cross
when they obey a stage direction, ‘and this is the other. You too, are
welcome, sir.’
‘He’ll do, I think, my dear?’ said the manager, taking a pinch of snuff.
‘He is admirable,’ replied the lady. ‘An acquisition indeed.’
As Mrs. Vincent Crummles recrossed back to the table, there bounded on
to the stage from some mysterious inlet, a little girl in a dirty white
frock with tucks up to the knees, short trousers, sandaled shoes, white
spencer, pink gauze bonnet, green veil and curl papers; who turned a
pirouette, cut twice in the air, turned another pirouette, then, looking
off at the opposite wing, shrieked, bounded forward to within six inches
of the footlights, and fell into a beautiful attitude of terror, as a
shabby gentleman in an old pair of buff slippers came in at one powerful
slide, and chattering his teeth, fiercely brandished a walking-stick.
‘They are going through the Indian Savage and the Maiden,’ said Mrs
Crummles.
‘Oh!’ said the manager, ‘the little ballet interlude. Very good, go on.
A little this way, if you please, Mr. Johnson. That’ll do. Now!’
The manager clapped his hands as a signal to proceed, and the savage,
becoming ferocious, made a slide towards the maiden; but the maiden
avoided him in six twirls, and came down, at the end of the last one,
upon the very points of her toes. This seemed to make some impression
upon the savage; for, after a little more ferocity and chasing of the
maiden into corners, he began to relent, and stroked his face several
times with his right thumb and four fingers, thereby intimating that
he was struck with admiration of the maiden’s beauty. Acting upon the
impulse of this passion, he (the savage) began to hit himself severe
thumps in the chest, and to exhibit other indications of being
desperately in love, which being rather a prosy proceeding, was very
likely the cause of the maiden’s falling asleep; whether it was or
no, asleep she did fall, sound as a church, on a sloping bank, and the
savage perceiving it, leant his left ear on his left hand, and nodded
sideways, to intimate to all whom it might concern that she WAS asleep,
and no shamming. Being left to himself, the savage had a dance, all
alone. Just as he left off, the maiden woke up, rubbed her eyes, got off
the bank, and had a dance all alone too--such a dance that the savage
looked on in ecstasy all the while, and when it was done, plucked from
a neighbouring tree some botanical curiosity, resembling a small pickled
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?’
‘Not at all,’ said Nicholas. ‘How can I feel otherwise than flattered by
your notice in any way?’
‘Oh! you men are such vain creatures!’ cried Miss Snevellicci.
Whereupon, she became charmingly confused, and, pulling out her
pocket-handkerchief from a faded pink silk reticule with a gilt clasp,
called to Miss Ledrook--
‘Led, my dear,’ said Miss Snevellicci.
‘Well, what is the matter?’ said Miss Ledrook.
‘It’s not the same.’
‘Not the same what?’
‘Canterbury--you know what I mean. Come here! I want to speak to you.’
But Miss Ledrook wouldn’t come to Miss Snevellicci, so Miss Snevellicci
was obliged to go to Miss Ledrook, which she did, in a skipping manner
that was quite fascinating; and Miss Ledrook evidently joked Miss
Snevellicci about being struck with Nicholas; for, after some playful
whispering, Miss Snevellicci hit Miss Ledrook very hard on the backs of
her hands, and retired up, in a state of pleasing confusion.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Mr. Vincent Crummles, who had been writing
on a piece of paper, ‘we’ll call the Mortal Struggle tomorrow at ten;
everybody for the procession. Intrigue, and Ways and Means, you’re all
up in, so we shall only want one rehearsal. Everybody at ten, if you
please.’
‘Everybody at ten,’ repeated Mrs. Grudden, looking about her.
‘On Monday morning we shall read a new piece,’ said Mr. Crummles; ‘the
name’s not known yet, but everybody will have a good part. Mr. Johnson
will take care of that.’
‘Hallo!’ said Nicholas, starting. ‘I--’
‘On Monday morning,’ repeated Mr. Crummles, raising his voice, to drown
the unfortunate Mr. Johnson’s remonstrance; ‘that’ll do, ladies and
gentlemen.’
The ladies and gentlemen required no second notice to quit; and, in
a few minutes, the theatre was deserted, save by the Crummles family,
Nicholas, and Smike.
‘Upon my word,’ said Nicholas, taking the manager aside, ‘I don’t think
I can be ready by Monday.’
‘Pooh, pooh,’ replied Mr. Crummles.
‘But really I can’t,’ returned Nicholas; ‘my invention is not accustomed
to these demands, or possibly I might produce--’
‘Invention! what the devil’s that got to do with it!’ cried the manager
hastily.
‘Everything, my dear sir.’
‘Nothing, my dear sir,’ retorted the manager, with evident impatience.
‘Do you understand French?’
‘Perfectly well.’
‘Very good,’ said the manager, opening the table drawer, and giving a
roll of paper from it to Nicholas. ‘There! Just turn that into English,
and put your name on the title-page. Damn me,’ said Mr. Crummles,
angrily, ‘if I haven’t often said that I wouldn’t have a man or woman in
my company that wasn’t master of the language, so that they might learn
it from the original, and play it in English, and save all this trouble
and expense.’
Nicholas smiled and pocketed the play.
‘What are you going to do about your lodgings?’ said Mr. Crummles.
Nicholas could not help thinking that, for the first week, it would be
an uncommon convenience to have a turn-up bedstead in the pit, but he
merely remarked that he had not turned his thoughts that way.
‘Come home with me then,’ said Mr. Crummles, ‘and my boys shall go with
you after dinner, and show you the most likely place.’
The offer was not to be refused; Nicholas and Mr. Crummles gave Mrs
Crummles an arm each, and walked up the street in stately array. Smike,
the boys, and the phenomenon, went home by a shorter cut, and Mrs
Grudden remained behind to take some cold Irish stew and a pint of
porter in the box-office.
Mrs. Crummles trod the pavement as if she were going to immediate
execution with an animating consciousness of innocence, and that heroic
fortitude which virtue alone inspires. Mr. Crummles, on the other hand,
assumed the look and gait of a hardened despot; but they both attracted
some notice from many of the passers-by, and when they heard a whisper
of ‘Mr. and Mrs. Crummles!’ or saw a little boy run back to stare them in
the face, the severe expression of their countenances relaxed, for they
felt it was popularity.
Mr. Crummles lived in St Thomas’s Street, at the house of one Bulph, a
pilot, who sported a boat-green door, with window-frames of the same
colour, and had the little finger of a drowned man on his parlour
mantelshelf, with other maritime and natural curiosities. He displayed
also a brass knocker, a brass plate, and a brass bell-handle, all very
bright and shining; and had a mast, with a vane on the top of it, in his
back yard.
‘You are welcome,’ said Mrs. Crummles, turning round to Nicholas when
they reached the bow-windowed front room on the first floor.
Nicholas bowed his acknowledgments, and was unfeignedly glad to see the
cloth laid.
‘We have but a shoulder of mutton with onion sauce,’ said Mrs. Crummles,
in the same charnel-house voice; ‘but such as our dinner is, we beg you
to partake of it.’
‘You are very good,’ replied Nicholas, ‘I shall do it ample justice.’
‘Vincent,’ said Mrs. Crummles, ‘what is the hour?’
‘Five minutes past dinner-time,’ said Mr. Crummles.
Mrs. Crummles rang the bell. ‘Let the mutton and onion sauce appear.’
The slave who attended upon Mr. Bulph’s lodgers, disappeared, and after
a short interval reappeared with the festive banquet. Nicholas and the
infant phenomenon opposed each other at the pembroke-table, and Smike
and the master Crummleses dined on the sofa bedstead.
‘Are they very theatrical people here?’ asked Nicholas.
‘No,’ replied Mr. Crummles, shaking his head, ‘far from it--far from it.’
‘I pity them,’ observed Mrs. Crummles.
‘So do I,’ said Nicholas; ‘if they have no relish for theatrical
entertainments, properly conducted.’
‘Then they have none, sir,’ rejoined Mr. Crummles. ‘To the infant’s
benefit, last year, on which occasion she repeated three of her most
popular characters, and also appeared in the Fairy Porcupine, as
originally performed by her, there was a house of no more than four
pound twelve.’
‘Is it possible?’ cried Nicholas.
‘And two pound of that was trust, pa,’ said the phenomenon.
‘And two pound of that was trust,’ repeated Mr. Crummles. ‘Mrs. Crummles
herself has played to mere handfuls.’
‘But they are always a taking audience, Vincent,’ said the manager’s
wife.
‘Most audiences are, when they have good acting--real good acting--the
regular thing,’ replied Mr. Crummles, forcibly.
‘Do you give lessons, ma’am?’ inquired Nicholas.
‘I do,’ said Mrs. Crummles.
‘There is no teaching here, I suppose?’
‘There has been,’ said Mrs. Crummles. ‘I have received pupils here. I
imparted tuition to the daughter of a dealer in ships’ provision; but
it afterwards appeared that she was insane when she first came to me. It
was very extraordinary that she should come, under such circumstances.’
Not feeling quite so sure of that, Nicholas thought it best to hold his
peace.
‘Let me see,’ said the manager cogitating after dinner. ‘Would you like
some nice little part with the infant?’
‘You are very good,’ replied Nicholas hastily; ‘but I think perhaps it
would be better if I had somebody of my own size at first, in case I
should turn out awkward. I should feel more at home, perhaps.’
‘True,’ said the manager. ‘Perhaps you would. And you could play up to
the infant, in time, you know.’
‘Certainly,’ replied Nicholas: devoutly hoping that it would be a very
long time before he was honoured with this distinction.
‘Then I’ll tell you what we’ll do,’ said Mr. Crummles. ‘You shall study
Romeo when you’ve done that piece--don’t forget to throw the pump
and tubs in by-the-bye--Juliet Miss Snevellicci, old Grudden the
nurse.--Yes, that’ll do very well. Rover too;--you might get up Rover
while you were about it, and Cassio, and Jeremy Diddler. You can easily
knock them off; one part helps the other so much. Here they are, cues
and all.’
With these hasty general directions Mr. Crummles thrust a number of
little books into the faltering hands of Nicholas, and bidding his
eldest son go with him and show where lodgings were to be had, shook him
by the hand, and wished him good night.
There is no lack of comfortable furnished apartments in Portsmouth, and
no difficulty in finding some that are proportionate to very slender
finances; but the former were too good, and the latter too bad, and they
went into so many houses, and came out unsuited, that Nicholas seriously
began to think he should be obliged to ask permission to spend the night
in the theatre, after all.
Eventually, however, they stumbled upon two small rooms up three pair of
stairs, or rather two pair and a ladder, at a tobacconist’s shop, on the
Common Hard: a dirty street leading down to the dockyard. These Nicholas
engaged, only too happy to have escaped any request for payment of a
week’s rent beforehand.
‘There! Lay down our personal property, Smike,’ he said, after showing
young Crummles downstairs. ‘We have fallen upon strange times, and
Heaven only knows the end of them; but I am tired with the events of
these three days, and will postpone reflection till tomorrow--if I can.’