Of the Great Bespeak for Miss Snevellicci, and thefirst Appearance of Nicholas upon any Stage.

　　Nicholas was up betimes in the morning; but he hadscarcely begun to dress, notwithstanding, when he heardfootsteps ascending the stairs, and was presently salutedby the voices of Mr Folair the pantomimist, and Mr Lenville, thetragedian.

　　‘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 tobreakfast, I suppose. I’ll open the door directly, if you’ll wait aninstant.’

　　The gentlemen entreated him not to hurry himself; and, tobeguile the interval, had a fencing bout with their walking-stickson the very small landing-place: to the unspeakable discomposureof all the other lodgers downstairs.

　　‘Here, come in,’ said Nicholas, when he had completed histoilet. ‘In the name of all that’s horrible, don’t make that noiseoutside.’

　　‘An uncommon snug little box this,’ said Mr Lenville, steppinginto the front room, and taking his hat off, before he could get in atall. ‘Pernicious snug.’

　　‘For a man at all particular in such matters, it might be a trifletoo snug,’ said Nicholas; ‘for, although it is, undoubtedly, a greatconvenience to be able to reach anything you want from the ceiling or the floor, or either side of the room, without having tomove from your chair, still these advantages can only be had in anapartment of the most limited size.’

　　‘It isn’t a bit too confined for a single man,’ returned MrLenville. ‘That reminds me,—my wife, Mr Johnson,—I hope she’llhave some good part in this piece of yours?’

　　‘I glanced at the French copy last night,’ said Nicholas. ‘It looksvery 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 afterwardswiping it on the skirt of his coat. ‘Anything in the gruff andgrumble 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 goodbusiness.’

　　‘After which,’ said Nicholas, ‘you are troubled with remorse tillthe last act, and then you make up your mind to destroy yourself.

　　But, just as you are raising the pistol to your head, a clockstrikes—ten.’

　　‘I see,’ cried Mr Lenville. ‘Very good.’

　　‘You pause,’ said Nicholas; ‘you recollect to have heard a clockstrike ten in your infancy. The pistol falls from your hand—you areovercome—you burst into tears, and become a virtuous andexemplary character for ever afterwards.’

　　‘Capital!’ said Mr Lenville: ‘that’s a sure card, a sure card. Getthe curtain down with a touch of nature like that, and it’ll be atriumphant success.’

　　‘Is there anything good for me?’ inquired Mr Folair, anxiously.

　　 ‘Let me see,’ said Nicholas. ‘You play the faithful and attachedservant; you are turned out of doors with the wife and child.’

　　‘Always coupled with that infernal phenomenon,’ sighed MrFolair; ‘and we go into poor lodgings, where I won’t take anywages, 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 bettermake a pas de deux, and save time.’

　　‘There’s nothing easier than that,’ said Mr Lenville, observingthe disturbed looks of the young dramatist.

　　‘Upon my word I don’t see how it’s to be done,’ rejoinedNicholas.

　　‘Why, isn’t it obvious?’ reasoned Mr Lenville. ‘Gadzooks, whocan help seeing the way to do it?—you astonish me! You get thedistressed lady, and the little child, and the attached servant, intothe poor lodgings, don’t you?—Well, look here. The distressed ladysinks 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 thefavourite servant, rubbing his eyes with his arm. “What can we doto raise your spirits, dear mama?” says the little child. “Ay, whatcan we do?” says the faithful servant. “Oh, Pierre!” says thedistressed lady; “would that I could shake off these painfulthoughts.”—“Try, ma’am, try,” says the faithful servant; “rouseyourself, ma’am; be amused.”—“I will,” says the lady, “I will learnto suffer with fortitude. Do you remember that dance, my honestfriend, which, in happier days, you practised with this sweetangel? 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 Idie,—and off they go. that’s the regular thing; isn’t it, tommy?’

　　‘That’s it,’ replied Mr Folair. ‘The distressed lady, overpoweredby old recollections, faints at the end of the dance, and you close inwith a picture.’

　　Profiting by these and other lessons, which were the result ofthe personal experience of the two actors, Nicholas willingly gavethem the best breakfast he could, and, when he at length got rid ofthem, applied himself to his task: by no means displeased to findthat it was so much easier than he had at first supposed. Heworked very hard all day, and did not leave his room until theevening, when he went down to the theatre, whither Smike hadrepaired before him to go on with another gentleman as a generalrebellion.

　　Here all the people were so much changed, that he scarcelyknew them. False hair, false colour, false calves, false muscles—they had become different beings. Mr Lenville was a bloomingwarrior of most exquisite proportions; Mr Crummles, his largeface shaded by a profusion of black hair, a Highland outlaw ofmost majestic bearing; one of the old gentlemen a jailer, and theother a venerable patriarch; the comic countryman, a fighting-man of great valour, relieved by a touch of humour; each of theMaster Crummleses a prince in his own right; and the low-spiritedlover, a desponding captive. There was a gorgeous banquet readyspread for the third act, consisting of two pasteboard vases, oneplate of biscuits, a black bottle, and a vinegar cruet; and, in short,everything was on a scale of the utmost splendour andpreparation.

　　Nicholas was standing with his back to the curtain, now contemplating the first scene, which was a Gothic archway, abouttwo feet shorter than Mr Crummles, through which thatgentleman was to make his first entrance, and now listening to acouple of people who were cracking nuts in the gallery, wonderingwhether they made the whole audience, when the managerhimself walked familiarly up and accosted him.

　　‘Been in front tonight?’ said Mr Crummles.

　　‘No,’ replied Nicholas, ‘not yet. I am going to see the play.’

　　‘We’ve had a pretty good Let,’ said Mr Crummles. ‘Four frontplaces in the centre, and the whole of the stage-box.’

　　‘Oh, indeed!’ said Nicholas; ‘a family, I suppose?’

　　‘Yes,’ replied Mr Crummles, ‘yes. It’s an affecting thing. Thereare six children, and they never come unless the phenomenonplays.’

　　It would have been difficult for any party, family, or otherwise,to have visited the theatre on a night when the phenomenon didnot play, inasmuch as she always sustained one, and notuncommonly two or three, characters, every night; but Nicholas,sympathising with the feelings of a father, refrained from hintingat this trifling circumstance, and Mr Crummles continued to talk,uninterrupted by him.

　　‘Six,’ said that gentleman; ‘pa and ma eight, aunt nine,governess ten, grandfather and grandmother twelve. Then, there’sthe footman, who stands outside, with a bag of oranges and a jugof toast-and-water, and sees the play for nothing through the littlepane of glass in the box-door—it’s cheap at a guinea; they gain bytaking a box.’

　　‘I wonder you allow so many,’ observed Nicholas.

　　‘There’s no help for it,’ replied Mr Crummles; ‘it’s always expected in the country. If there are six children, six people cometo hold them in their laps. A family-box carries double always.

　　Ring in the orchestra, Grudden!’

　　That useful lady did as she was requested, and shortlyafterwards the tuning of three fiddles was heard. Which processhaving been protracted as long as it was supposed that thepatience of the audience could possibly bear it, was put a stop toby another jerk of the bell, which, being the signal to begin inearnest, set the orchestra playing a variety of popular airs, withinvoluntary variations.

　　If Nicholas had been astonished at the alteration for the betterwhich the gentlemen displayed, the transformation of the ladieswas still more extraordinary. When, from a snug corner of themanager’s box, he beheld Miss Snevellicci in all the glories ofwhite muslin with a golden hem, and Mrs Crummles in all thedignity of the outlaw’s wife, and Miss Bravassa in all the sweetnessof Miss Snevellicci’s confidential friend, and Miss Belvawney inthe white silks of a page doing duty everywhere and swearing tolive and die in the service of everybody, he could scarcely containhis admiration, which testified itself in great applause, and theclosest possible attention to the business of the scene. The plotwas most interesting. It belonged to no particular age, people, orcountry, and was perhaps the more delightful on that account, asnobody’s previous information could afford the remotestglimmering of what would ever come of it. An outlaw had beenvery successful in doing something somewhere, and came home,in triumph, to the sound of shouts and fiddles, to greet his wife—alady of masculine mind, who talked a good deal about her father’sbones, which it seemed were unburied, though whether from a peculiar taste on the part of the old gentleman himself, or thereprehensible neglect of his relations, did not appear. Thisoutlaw’s wife was, somehow or other, mixed up with a patriarch,living in a castle a long way off, and this patriarch was the father ofseveral of the characters, but he didn’t exactly know which, andwas uncertain whether he had brought up the right ones in hiscastle, or the wrong ones; he rather inclined to the latter opinion,and, being uneasy, relieved his mind with a banquet, during whichsolemnity somebody in a cloak said ‘Beware!’ which somebodywas known by nobody (except the audience) to be the outlawhimself, who had come there, for reasons unexplained, butpossibly with an eye to the spoons. There was an agreeable littlesurprise in the way of certain love passages between thedesponding captive and Miss Snevellicci, and the comic fighting-man and Miss Bravassa; besides which, Mr Lenville had severalvery tragic scenes in the dark, while on throat-cutting expeditions,which were all baffled by the skill and bravery of the comicfighting-man (who overheard whatever was said all through thepiece) and the intrepidity of Miss Snevellicci, who adopted tights,and therein repaired to the prison of her captive lover, with asmall basket of refreshments and a dark lantern. At last, it cameout that the patriarch was the man who had treated the bones ofthe outlaw’s father-in-law with so much disrespect, for whichcause and reason the outlaw’s wife repaired to his castle to killhim, and so got into a dark room, where, after a good deal ofgroping in the dark, everybody got hold of everybody else, andtook them for somebody besides, which occasioned a vast quantityof confusion, with some pistolling, loss of life, and torchlight; afterwhich, the patriarch came forward, and observing, with a knowing look, that he knew all about his children now, and would tell themwhen they got inside, said that there could not be a moreappropriate occasion for marrying the young people than that; andtherefore he joined their hands, with the full consent of theindefatigable page, who (being the only other person surviving)pointed with his cap into the clouds, and his right hand to theground; thereby invoking a blessing and giving the cue for thecurtain to come down, which it did, amidst general applause.

　　‘What did you think of that?’ asked Mr Crummles, whenNicholas went round to the stage again. Mr Crummles was veryred and hot, for your outlaws are desperate fellows to shout.

　　‘I think it was very capital indeed,’ replied Nicholas; ‘MissSnevellicci in particular was uncommonly good.’

　　‘She’s a genius,’ said Mr Crummles; ‘quite a genius, that girl.

　　By-the-bye, I’ve been thinking of bringing out that piece of yourson her bespeak night.’

　　‘When?’ asked Nicholas.

　　‘The night of her bespeak. Her benefit night, when her friendsand patrons bespeak the play,’ said Mr Crummles.

　　‘Oh! I understand,’ replied Nicholas.

　　‘You see,’ said Mr. Crummles, ‘it’s sure to go, on such anoccasion, and even if it should not work up quite as well as weexpect, why it will be her risk, you know, and not ours.’

　　‘Yours, you mean,’ said Nicholas.

　　‘I said mine, didn’t I?’ returned Mr Crummles. ‘Next Mondayweek. What do you say? You’ll have done it, and are sure to be upin the lover’s part, long before that time.’

　　‘I don’t know about “long before,”’ replied Nicholas; ‘but by thattime I think I can undertake to be ready.’

　　 ‘Very good,’ pursued Mr Crummles, ‘then we’ll call that settled.

　　Now, I want to ask you something else. There’s a little—what shallI call it?—a little canvassing takes place on these occasions.’

　　‘Among the patrons, I suppose?’ said Nicholas.

　　‘Among the patrons; and the fact is, that Snevellicci has had somany bespeaks in this place, that she wants an attraction. She hada bespeak when her mother-in-law died, and a bespeak when heruncle died; and Mrs Crummles and myself have had bespeaks onthe anniversary of the phenomenon’s birthday, and our wedding-day, and occasions of that description, so that, in fact, there’s somedifficulty in getting a good one. Now, won’t you help this poor girl,Mr Johnson?’ said Crummles, sitting himself down on a drum, andtaking a great pinch of snuff, as he looked him steadily in the face.

　　‘How do you mean?’ rejoined Nicholas.

　　‘Don’t you think you could spare half an hour tomorrowmorning, to call with her at the houses of one or two of theprincipal people?’ murmured the manager in a persuasive tone.

　　‘Oh dear me,’ said Nicholas, with an air of very strong objection,‘I shouldn’t like to do that.’

　　‘The infant will accompany her,’ said Mr Crummles. ‘Themoment it was suggested to me, I gave permission for the infant togo. There will not be the smallest impropriety—Miss Snevellicci,sir, is the very soul of honour. It would be of material service—thegentleman from London—author of the new piece—actor in thenew piece—first appearance on any boards—it would lead to agreat bespeak, Mr Johnson.’

　　‘I am very sorry to throw a damp upon the prospects ofanybody, and more especially a lady,’ replied Nicholas; ‘but reallyI must decidedly object to making one of the canvassing party.’

　　 ‘What does Mr Johnson say, Vincent?’ inquired a voice close tohis ear; and, looking round, he found Mrs Crummles and MissSnevellicci 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 socruel—oh, dear me!—Well, I—to think of that now, after all one’slooking forward to it!’

　　‘Mr Johnson will not persist, my dear,’ said Mrs Crummles.

　　‘Think better of him than to suppose it. Gallantry, humanity, allthe best feelings of his nature, must be enlisted in this interestingcause.’

　　‘Which moves even a manager,’ said Mr Crummles, smiling.

　　‘And a manager’s wife,’ added Mrs Crummles, in heraccustomed tragedy tones. ‘Come, come, you will relent, I knowyou will.’

　　‘It is not in my nature,’ said Nicholas, moved by these appeals,‘to resist any entreaty, unless it is to do something positivelywrong; and, beyond a feeling of pride, I know nothing whichshould prevent my doing this. I know nobody here, and nobodyknows me. So be it then. I yield.’

　　Miss Snevellicci was at once overwhelmed with blushes andexpressions of gratitude, of which latter commodity neither Mr norMrs Crummles was by any means sparing. It was arranged thatNicholas should call upon her, at her lodgings, at eleven nextmorning, and soon after they parted: he to return home to hisauthorship: Miss Snevellicci to dress for the after-piece: and thedisinterested manager and his wife to discuss the probable gains of the forthcoming bespeak, of which they were to have two-thirdsof the profits by solemn treaty of agreement.

　　At the stipulated hour next morning, Nicholas repaired to thelodgings of Miss Snevellicci, which were in a place called LombardStreet, at the house of a tailor. A strong smell of ironing pervadedthe little passage; and the tailor’s daughter, who opened the door,appeared in that flutter of spirits which is so often attendant uponthe periodical getting up of a family’s linen.

　　‘Miss Snevellicci lives here, I believe?’ said Nicholas, when thedoor was opened.

　　The tailor’s daughter replied in the affirmative.

　　‘Will you have the goodness to let her know that Mr Johnson ishere?’ said Nicholas.

　　‘Oh, if you please, you’re to come upstairs,’ replied the tailor’sdaughter, with a smile.

　　Nicholas followed the young lady, and was shown into a smallapartment on the first floor, communicating with a back-room; inwhich, as he judged from a certain half-subdued clinking sound, asof cups and saucers, Miss Snevellicci was then taking herbreakfast in bed.

　　‘You’re to wait, if you please,’ said the tailor’s daughter, after ashort period of absence, during which the clinking in the back-room had ceased, and been succeeded by whispering—‘She won’tbe long.’

　　As she spoke, she pulled up the window-blind, and having bythis means (as she thought) diverted Mr Johnson’s attention fromthe room to the street, caught up some articles which were airingon 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 mightotherwise 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 ofsoiled white satin shoes with large blue rosettes. Hanging over theback of a chair was a half-finished muslin apron with little pocketsornamented with red ribbons, such as waiting-women wear on thestage, and (by consequence) are never seen with anywhere else. Inone corner stood the diminutive pair of top-boots in which MissSnevellicci was accustomed to enact the little jockey, and, fold............