'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.'
Chapter 24
Of the Great Bespeak for Miss Snevellicci, and the first Appearance of Nicholas upon any Stage
Nicholas was up betimes in the morning; but he had scarcely begun to dress, notwithstanding, when he heard footsteps ascending the stairs, and was presently saluted by the voices of Mr Folair the pantomimist, and Mr Lenville, the tragedian.
'House, house, house!' cried Mr Folair.
'What, ho! within there" said Mr Lenville, in a deep voice.
'Confound these fellows!' thought Nicholas; 'they have come to breakfast, I suppose. I'll open the door directly, if you'll wait an instant.'
The gentlemen entreated him not to hurry himself; and, to beguile the interval, had a fencing bout with their walking-sticks on the very small landing-place: to the unspeakable discomposure of all the other lodgers downstairs.
'Here, come in,' said Nicholas, when he had completed his toilet. 'In the name of all that's horrible, don't make that noise outside.'
'An uncommon snug little box this,' said Mr Lenville, stepping into the front room, and taking his hat off, before he could get in at all. 'Pernicious snug.'
'For a man at all particular in such matters, it might be a trifle too snug,' said Nicholas; 'for, although it is, undoubtedly, a great convenience to be able to reach anything you want from the ceiling or the floor, or either side of the room, without having to move from your chair, still these advantages can only be had in an apartment of the most limited size.'
'It isn't a bit too confined for a single man,' returned Mr Lenville. 'That reminds me,—my wife, Mr Johnson,—I hope she'll have some good part in this piece of yours?'
'I glanced at the French copy last night,' said Nicholas. 'It looks very good, I think.'
'What do you mean to do for me, old fellow?' asked Mr Lenville, poking the struggling fire with his walking-stick, and afterwards wiping it on the skirt of his coat. 'Anything in the gruff and grumble way?'
'You turn your wife and child out of doors,' said Nicholas; 'and, in a fit of rage and jealousy, stab your eldest son in the library.'
'Do I though!' exclaimed Mr Lenville. 'That's very good business.'
'After which,' said Nicholas, 'you are troubled with remorse till the last act, and then you make up your mind to destroy yourself. But, just as you are raising the pistol to your head, a clock strikes—ten.'
'I see,' cried Mr Lenville. 'Very good.'
'You pause,' said Nicholas; 'you recollect to have heard a clock strike ten in your infancy. The pistol falls from your hand—you are overcome—you burst into tears, and become a virtuous and exemplary character for ever afterwards.'
'Capital!' said Mr Lenville: 'that's a sure card, a sure card. Get the curtain down with a touch of nature like that, and it'll be a triumphant success.'
'Is there anything good for me?' inquired Mr Folair, anxiously.
'Let me see,' said Nicholas. 'You play the faithful and attached servant; you are turned out of doors with the wife and child.'
'Always coupled with that infernal phenomenon,' sighed Mr Folair; 'and we go into poor lodgings, where I won't take any wages, and talk sentiment, I suppose?'
'Why—yes,' replied Nicholas: 'that is the course of the piece.'
'I must have a dance of some kind, you know,' said Mr Folair. 'You'll have to introduce one for the phenomenon, so you'd better make a PAS DE DEUX, and save time.'
'There's nothing easier than that,' said Mr Lenville, observing the disturbed looks of the young dramatist.
'Upon my word I don't see how it's to be done,' rejoined Nicholas.
'Why, isn't it obvious?' reasoned Mr Lenville. 'Gadzooks, who can help seeing the way to do it?—you astonish me! You get the distressed lady, and the little child, and the attached servant, into the poor lodgings, don't you?—Well, look here. The distressed lady sinks into a chair, and buries her face in her pocket- handkerchief. "What makes you weep, mama?" says the child. "Don't weep, mama, or you'll make me weep too!"—"And me!" says the favourite servant, rubbing his eyes with his arm. "What can we do to raise your spirits, dear mama?" says the little child. "Ay, what CAN we do?" says the faithful servant. "Oh, Pierre!" says the distressed lady; "would that I could shake off these painful thoughts."—"Try, ma'am, try," says the faithful servant; "rouse yourself, ma'am; be amused."—"I will," says the lady, "I will learn to suffer with fortitude. Do you remember that dance, my honest friend, which, in happier days, you practised with this sweet angel? It never failed to calm my spirits then. Oh! let me see it once again before I die!"—There it is—cue for the band, BEFORE I DIE,— and off they go. That's the regular thing; isn't it, Tommy?'