Of the Proceedings of Nicholas, and certain Internal Divisions in the
Company of Mr. Vincent Crummles
The unexpected success and favour with which his experiment at
Portsmouth had been received, induced Mr. Crummles to prolong his stay in
that town for a fortnight beyond the period he had originally assigned
for the duration of his visit, during which time Nicholas personated a
vast variety of characters with undiminished success, and attracted so
many people to the theatre who had never been seen there before, that
a benefit was considered by the manager a very promising speculation.
Nicholas assenting to the terms proposed, the benefit was had, and by it
he realised no less a sum than twenty pounds.
Possessed of this unexpected wealth, his first act was to enclose
to honest John Browdie the amount of his friendly loan, which he
accompanied with many expressions of gratitude and esteem, and many
cordial wishes for his matrimonial happiness. To Newman Noggs he
forwarded one half of the sum he had realised, entreating him to take
an opportunity of handing it to Kate in secret, and conveying to her the
warmest assurances of his love and affection. He made no mention of the
way in which he had employed himself; merely informing Newman that
a letter addressed to him under his assumed name at the Post Office,
Portsmouth, would readily find him, and entreating that worthy friend to
write full particulars of the situation of his mother and sister, and
an account of all the grand things that Ralph Nickleby had done for them
since his departure from London.
‘You are out of spirits,’ said Smike, on the night after the letter had
been dispatched.
‘Not I!’ rejoined Nicholas, with assumed gaiety, for the confession
would have made the boy miserable all night; ‘I was thinking about my
sister, Smike.’
‘Sister!’
‘Ay.’
‘Is she like you?’ inquired Smike.
‘Why, so they say,’ replied Nicholas, laughing, ‘only a great deal
handsomer.’
‘She must be VERY beautiful,’ said Smike, after thinking a little while
with his hands folded together, and his eyes bent upon his friend.
‘Anybody who didn’t know you as well as I do, my dear fellow, would say
you were an accomplished courtier,’ said Nicholas.
‘I don’t even know what that is,’ replied Smike, shaking his head.
‘Shall I ever see your sister?’
‘To be sure,’ cried Nicholas; ‘we shall all be together one of these
days--when we are rich, Smike.’
‘How is it that you, who are so kind and good to me, have nobody to be
kind to you?’ asked Smike. ‘I cannot make that out.’
‘Why, it is a long story,’ replied Nicholas, ‘and one you would
have some difficulty in comprehending, I fear. I have an enemy--you
understand what that is?’
‘Oh, yes, I understand that,’ said Smike.
‘Well, it is owing to him,’ returned Nicholas. ‘He is rich, and not so
easily punished as YOUR old enemy, Mr. Squeers. He is my uncle, but he is
a villain, and has done me wrong.’
‘Has he though?’ asked Smike, bending eagerly forward. ‘What is his
name? Tell me his name.’
‘Ralph--Ralph Nickleby.’
‘Ralph Nickleby,’ repeated Smike. ‘Ralph. I’ll get that name by heart.’
He had muttered it over to himself some twenty times, when a loud knock
at the door disturbed him from his occupation. Before he could open it,
Mr. Folair, the pantomimist, thrust in his head.
Mr. Folair’s head was usually decorated with a very round hat, unusually
high in the crown, and curled up quite tight in the brims. On the
present occasion he wore it very much on one side, with the back part
forward in consequence of its being the least rusty; round his neck he
wore a flaming red worsted comforter, whereof the straggling ends peeped
out beneath his threadbare Newmarket coat, which was very tight and
buttoned all the way up. He carried in his hand one very dirty glove,
and a cheap dress cane with a glass handle; in short, his whole
appearance was unusually dashing, and demonstrated a far more scrupulous
attention to his toilet than he was in the habit of bestowing upon it.
‘Good-evening, sir,’ said Mr. Folair, taking off the tall hat, and
running his fingers through his hair. ‘I bring a communication. Hem!’
‘From whom and what about?’ inquired Nicholas. ‘You are unusually
mysterious tonight.’
‘Cold, perhaps,’ returned Mr. Folair; ‘cold, perhaps. That is the fault
of my position--not of myself, Mr. Johnson. My position as a mutual
friend requires it, sir.’ Mr. Folair paused with a most impressive look,
and diving into the hat before noticed, drew from thence a small piece
of whity-brown paper curiously folded, whence he brought forth a note
which it had served to keep clean, and handing it over to Nicholas,
said--
‘Have the goodness to read that, sir.’
Nicholas, in a state of much amazement, took the note and broke the
seal, glancing at Mr. Folair as he did so, who, knitting his brow and
pursing up his mouth with great dignity, was sitting with his eyes
steadily fixed upon the ceiling.
It was directed to blank Johnson, Esq., by favour of Augustus Folair,
Esq.; and the astonishment of Nicholas was in no degree lessened, when
he found it to be couched in the following laconic terms:--
“Mr. Lenville presents his kind regards to Mr. Johnson, and will feel
obliged if he will inform him at what hour tomorrow morning it will be
most convenient to him to meet Mr. L. at the Theatre, for the purpose of
having his nose pulled in the presence of the company.
“Mr. Lenville requests Mr. Johnson not to neglect making an appointment,
as he has invited two or three professional friends to witness the
ceremony, and cannot disappoint them upon any account whatever.
“PORTSMOUTH, TUESDAY NIGHT.”
Indignant as he was at this impertinence, there was something so
exquisitely absurd in such a cartel of defiance, that Nicholas was
obliged to bite his lip and read the note over two or three times before
he could muster sufficient gravity and sternness to address the hostile
messenger, who had not taken his eyes from the ceiling, nor altered the
expression of his face in the slightest degree.
‘Do you know the contents of this note, sir?’ he asked, at length.
‘Yes,’ rejoined Mr. Folair, looking round for an instant, and immediately
carrying his eyes back again to the ceiling.
‘And how dare you bring it here, sir?’ asked Nicholas, tearing it into
very little pieces, and jerking it in a shower towards the messenger.
‘Had you no fear of being kicked downstairs, sir?’
Mr. Folair turned his head--now ornamented with several fragments of the
note--towards Nicholas, and with the same imperturbable dignity, briefly
replied ‘No.’
‘Then,’ said Nicholas, taking up the tall hat and tossing it towards the
door, ‘you had better follow that article of your dress, sir, or you
may find yourself very disagreeably deceived, and that within a dozen
seconds.’
‘I say, Johnson,’ remonstrated Mr. Folair, suddenly losing all his
dignity, ‘none of that, you know. No tricks with a gentleman’s
wardrobe.’
‘Leave the room,’ returned Nicholas. ‘How could you presume to come here
on such an errand, you scoundrel?’
‘Pooh! pooh!’ said Mr. Folair, unwinding his comforter, and gradually
getting himself out of it. ‘There--that’s enough.’
‘Enough!’ cried Nicholas, advancing towards him. ‘Take yourself off,
sir.’
‘Pooh! pooh! I tell you,’ returned Mr. Folair, waving his hand in
deprecation of any further wrath; ‘I wasn’t in earnest. I only brought
it in joke.’
‘You had better be careful how you indulge in such jokes again,’
said Nicholas, ‘or you may find an allusion to pulling noses rather a
dangerous reminder for the subject of your facetiousness. Was it written
in joke, too, pray?’
‘No, no, that’s the best of it,’ returned the actor; ‘right down
earnest--honour bright.’
Nicholas could not repress a smile at the odd figure before him, which,
at all times more calculated to provoke mirth than anger, was especially
so at that moment, when with one knee upon the ground, Mr. Folair twirled
his old hat round upon his hand, and affected the extremest agony lest
any of the nap should have been knocked off--an ornament which it is
almost superfluous to say, it had not boasted for many months.
‘Come, sir,’ said Nicholas, laughing in spite of himself. ‘Have the
goodness to explain.’
‘Why, I’ll tell you how it is,’ said Mr. Folair, sitting himself down
in a chair with great coolness. ‘Since you came here Lenville has done
nothing but second business, and, instead of having a reception every
night as he used to have, they have let him come on as if he was
nobody.’
‘What do you mean by a reception?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Jupiter!’ exclaimed Mr. Folair, ‘what an unsophisticated shepherd you
are, Johnson! Why, applause from the house when you first come on. So he
has gone on night after night, never getting a hand, and you getting a
couple of rounds at least, and sometimes three, till at length he got
quite desperate, and had half a mind last night to play Tybalt with a
real sword, and pink you--not dangerously, but just enough to lay you up
for a month or two.’
‘Very considerate,’ remarked Nicholas.
‘Yes, I think it was under the circumstances; his professional
reputation being at stake,’ said Mr. Folair, quite seriously. ‘But his
heart failed him, and he cast about for some other way of annoying
you, and making himself popular at the same time--for that’s the point.
Notoriety, notoriety, is the thing. Bless you, if he had pinked you,’
said Mr. Folair, stopping to make a calculation in his mind, ‘it would
have been worth--ah, it would have been worth eight or ten shillings a
week to him. All the town would have come to see the actor who nearly
killed a man by mistake; I shouldn’t wonder if it had got him an
engagement in London. However, he was obliged to try some other mode of
getting popular, and this one occurred to him. It’s a clever idea, really.
If you had shown the white feather, and let him pull your nose, he’d
have got it into the paper; if you had sworn the peace against him, it
would have been in the paper too, and he’d have been just as much talked
about as you--don’t you see?’
‘Oh, certainly,’ rejoined Nicholas; ‘but suppose I were to turn the
tables, and pull HIS nose, what then? Would that make his fortune?’
‘Why, I don’t think it would,’ replied Mr. Folair, scratching his head,
‘because there wouldn’t be any romance about it, and he wouldn’t be
favourably known. To tell you the truth though, he didn’t calculate much
upon that, for you’re always so mild-spoken, and are so popular among
the women, that we didn’t suspect you of showing fight. If you did,
however, he has a way of getting out of it easily, depend upon that.’
‘Has he?’ rejoined Nicholas. ‘We will try, tomorrow morning. In the
meantime, you can give whatever account of our interview you like best.
Good-night.’
As Mr. Folair was pretty well known among his fellow-actors for a man who
delighted in mischief, and was by no means scrupulous, Nicholas had not
much doubt but that he had secretly prompted the tragedian in the course
he had taken, and, moreover, that he would have carried his mission with
a very high hand if he had not been disconcerted by the very unexpected
demonstrations with which it had been received. It was not worth his
while to be serious with him, however, so he dismissed the pantomimist,
with a gentle hint that if he offended again it would be under
the penalty of a broken head; and Mr. Folair, taking the caution in
exceedingly good part, walked away to confer with his principal,
and give such an account of his proceedings as he might think best
calculated to carry on the joke.
He had no doubt reported that Nicholas was in a state of extreme bodily
fear; for when that young gentleman walked with much deliberation down
to the theatre next morning at the usual hour, he found all the company
assembled in evident expectation, and Mr. Lenville, with his severest
stage face, sitting majestically on a table, whistling defiance.
Now the ladies were on the side of Nicholas, and the gentlemen (being
jealous) were on the side of the disappointed tragedian; so that the
latter formed a little group about the redoubtable Mr. Lenville, and the
former looked on at a little distance in some trepidation and anxiety.
On Nicholas stopping to salute them, Mr. Lenville laughed a scornful
laugh, and made some general remark touching the natural history of
puppies.
‘Oh!’ said Nicholas, looking quietly round, ‘are you there?’
‘Slave!’ returned Mr. Lenville, flourishing his right arm, and
approaching Nicholas with a theatrical stride. But somehow he appeared
just at that moment a little startled, as if Nicholas did not look quite
so frightened as he had expected, and came all at once to an awkward
halt, at which the assembled ladies burst into a shrill laugh.
‘Object of my scorn and hatred!’ said Mr. Lenville, ‘I hold ye in
contempt.’
Nicholas laughed in very unexpected enjoyment of this performance; and
the ladies, by way of encouragement, laughed louder than before; whereat
Mr. Lenville assumed his bitterest smile, and expressed his opinion that
they were ‘minions’.
‘But they shall not protect ye!’ said the tragedian, taking an upward
look at Nicholas, beginning at his boots and ending at the crown of his
head, and then a downward one, beginning at the crown of his head,
and ending at his boots--which two looks, as everybody knows, express
defiance on the stage. ‘They shall not protect ye--boy!’
Thus speaking, Mr. Lenville folded his arms, and treated Nicholas to that
expression of face with which, in melodramatic performances, he was in
the habit of regarding the tyrannical kings when they said, ‘Away
with him to the deepest dungeon beneath the castle moat;’ and which,
accompanied with a little jingling of fetters, had been known to produce
great effects in its time.
Whether it was the absence of the fetters or not, it made no very deep
impression on Mr. Lenville’s adversary, however, but rather seemed to
increase the good-humour expressed in his countenance; in which stage of
the contest, one or two gentlemen, who had come out expressly to witness
the pulling of Nicholas’s nose, grew impatient, murmuring that if it
were to be done at all it had better be done at once, and that if Mr
Lenville didn’t mean to do it he had better say so, and not keep them
waiting there. Thus urged, the tragedian adjusted the cuff of his right
coat sleeve for the performance of the operation, and walked in a very
stately manner up to Nicholas, who suffered him to approach to within
the requisite distance, and then, without the smallest discomposure,
knocked him down.
Before the discomfited tragedian could raise his head from the boards,
Mrs. Lenville (who, as has been before hinted, was in an interesting
state) rushed from the rear rank of ladies, and uttering a piercing
scream threw herself upon the body.
‘Do you see this, monster? Do you see THIS?’ cried Mr. Lenville, sitting
up, and pointing to his prostrate lady, who was holding him very tight
round the waist.
‘Come,’ said Nicholas, nodding his head, ‘apologise for the insolent
note you wrote to me last night, and waste no more time in talking.’
‘Never!’ cried Mr. Lenville.
‘Yes--yes--yes!’ screamed his wife. ‘For my sake--for mine,
Lenville--forego all idle forms, unless you would see me a blighted
corse at your feet.’
‘This is affecting!’ said Mr. Lenville, looking round him, and drawing
the back of his hand across his eyes. ‘The ties of nature are strong.
The weak husband and the father--the father that is yet to be--relents.
I apologise.’
‘Humbly and submissively?’ said Nicholas.
‘Humbly and submissively,’ returned the tragedian, scowling upwards.
‘But only to save her,--for a time will come--’
‘Very good,’ said Nicholas; ‘I hope Mrs. Lenville may have a good one;
and when it does come, and you are a father, you shall retract it if you
have the courage. There. Be careful, sir, to what lengths your jealousy
carries you another time; and be careful, also, before you venture
too far, to ascertain your rival’s temper.’ With this parting advice
Nicholas picked up Mr. Lenville’s ash stick which had flown out of his
hand, and breaking it in half, threw him the pieces and withdrew, bowing
slightly to the spectators as he walked out.
The profoundest deference was paid to Nicholas that night, and the
people who had been most anxious to have his nose pulled in the morning,
embraced occasions of taking him aside, and telling him with great
feeling, how very friendly they took it that he should have treated that
Lenville so properly, who was a most unbearable fellow, and on whom they
had all, by a remarkable coincidence, at one time or other contemplated
the infliction of condign punishment, which they had only been
restrained from administering by considerations of mercy; indeed, to
judge from the invariable termination of all these stories, there never
was such a charitable and kind-hearted set of people as the male members
of Mr. Crummles’s company.
Nicholas bore his triumph, as he had his success in the little world of
the theatre, with the utmost moderation and good humour. The crestfallen
Mr. Lenville made an expiring effort to obtain revenge by sending a
boy into the gallery to hiss, but he fell a sacrifice to popular
indignation, and was promptly turned out without having his money back.
‘Well, Smike,’ said Nicholas when the first piece was over, and he had
almost finished dressing to go home, ‘is there any letter yet?’
‘Yes,’ replied Smike, ‘I got this one from the post-office.’
‘From Newman Noggs,’ said Nicholas, casting his eye upon the cramped
direction; ‘it’s no easy matter to make his writing out. Let me see--let
me see.’
By dint of poring over the letter for half an hour, he contrived to make
himself master of the contents, which were certainly not of a nature
to set his mind at ease. Newman took upon himself to send back the ten
pounds, observing that he had ascertained that neither Mrs. Nickleby nor
Kate was in actual want of money at the moment, and that a time might
shortly come when Nicholas might want it more. He entreated him not to
be alarmed at what he was about to say;--there was no bad news--they
were in good health--but he thought circumstances might occur, or were
occurring, which would render it absolutely necessary that Kate should
have her brother’s protection, and if so, Newman said, he would write to
him to that effect, either by the next post or the next but one.
Nicholas read this passage very often, and the more he thought of it
the more he began to fear some treachery upon the part of Ralph. Once
or twice he felt tempted to repair to London at all hazards without an
hour’s delay, but a little reflection assured him that if such a step
were necessary, Newman would have spoken out and told him so at once.
‘At all events I should prepare them here for the possibility of my
going away suddenly,’ said Nicholas; ‘I should lose no time in doing
that.’ As the thought occurred to him, he took up his hat and hurried to
the green-room.
‘Well, Mr. Johnson,’ said Mrs. Crummles, who was seated there in full
regal costume, with the phenomenon as the Maiden in her maternal arms,
‘next week for Ryde, then for Winchester, then for--’
‘I have some reason to fear,’ interrupted Nicholas, ‘that before you
leave here my career with you will have closed.’
‘Closed!’ cried Mrs. Crummles, raising her hands in astonishment.
‘Closed!’ cried Miss Snevellicci, trembling so much in her tights that
she actually laid her hand upon the shoulder of the manageress for
support.
‘Why he don’t mean to say he’s going!’ exclaimed Mrs. Grudden, making her
way towards Mrs. Crummles. ‘Hoity toity! Nonsense.’
The phenomenon, being of an affectionate nature and moreover excitable,
raised a loud cry, and Miss Belvawney and Miss Bravassa actually shed
tears. Even the male performers stopped in their conversation, and
echoed the word ‘Going!’ although some among them (and they had been
the loudest in their congratulations that day) winked at each other
as though they would not be sorry to lose such a favoured rival; an
opinion, indeed, which the honest Mr. Folair, who was ready dressed for
the savage, openly stated in so many words to a demon with whom he was
sharing a pot of porter.
Nicholas briefly said that he feared it would be so, although he could
not yet speak with any degree of certainty; and getting away as soon as
he could, went home to con Newman’s letter once more, and speculate upon
it afresh.
How trifling all that had been occupying his time and thoughts for many
weeks seemed to him during that sleepless night, and how constantly and
incessantly present to his imagination was the one idea that Kate in the
midst of some great trouble and distress might even then be looking--and
vainly too--for him!