Nicholas was up betimes in the morning; but he had scarcely begun to dress, notwithstanding, when he heard footsteps ascending3 the stairs, and was presently saluted4 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 entreated5 him not to hurry himself; and, to beguile6 the interval7, had a fencing bout8 with their walking-sticks on the very small landing-place: to the unspeakable discomposure of all the other lodgers9 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 uncommon10 snug11 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, undoubtedly12, 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, poking13 the struggling fire with his walking-stick, and afterwards wiping it on the skirt of his coat. ‘Anything in the gruff and grumble14 way?’
‘You turn your wife and child out of doors,’ said Nicholas; ‘and, in a fit of rage and jealousy15, stab your eldest16 son in the library.’
‘Do I though!’ exclaimed Mr. Lenville. ‘That’s very good business.’
‘After which,’ said Nicholas, ‘you are troubled with remorse17 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 recollect18 to have heard a clock strike ten in your infancy19. The pistol falls from your hand—you are overcome—you burst into tears, and become a virtuous20 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 triumphant21 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 lodgings22, 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 distressed23 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 fortitude24. 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?’
‘That’s it,’ replied Mr. Folair. ‘The distressed lady, overpowered by old recollections, faints at the end of the dance, and you close in with a picture.’
Profiting by these and other lessons, which were the result of the personal experience of the two actors, Nicholas willingly gave them the best breakfast he could, and, when he at length got rid of them, applied26 himself to his task: by no means displeased27 to find that it was so much easier than he had at first supposed. He worked very hard all day, and did not leave his room until the evening, when he went down to the theatre, whither Smike had repaired before him to go on with another gentleman as a general rebellion.
Here all the people were so much changed, that he scarcely knew them. False hair, false colour, false calves28, false muscles—they had become different beings. Mr. Lenville was a blooming warrior29 of most exquisite30 proportions; Mr. Crummles, his large face shaded by a profusion31 of black hair, a Highland32 outlaw33 of most majestic34 bearing; one of the old gentlemen a jailer, and the other a venerable patriarch; the comic countryman, a fighting-man of great valour, relieved by a touch of humour; each of the Master Crummleses a prince in his own right; and the low-spirited lover, a desponding captive. There was a gorgeous banquet ready spread for the third act, consisting of two pasteboard vases, one plate of biscuits, a black bottle, and a vinegar cruet; and, in short, everything was on a scale of the utmost splendour and preparation.
Nicholas was standing2 with his back to the curtain, now contemplating35 the first scene, which was a Gothic archway, about two feet shorter than Mr Crummles, through which that gentleman was to make his first entrance, and now listening to a couple of people who were cracking nuts in the gallery, wondering whether they made the whole audience, when the manager himself walked familiarly up and accosted36 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 front places 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. There are six children, and they never come unless the phenomenon plays.’
It would have been difficult for any party, family, or otherwise, to have visited the theatre on a night when the phenomenon did not play, inasmuch as she always sustained one, and not uncommonly37 two or three, characters, every night; but Nicholas, sympathising with the feelings of a father, refrained from hinting at this trifling38 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’s the footman, who stands outside, with a bag of oranges and a jug39 of toast-and-water, and sees the play for nothing through the little pane40 of glass in the box-door—it’s cheap at a guinea; they gain by taking 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 come to 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 shortly afterwards the tuning41 of three fiddles42 was heard. Which process having been protracted43 as long as it was supposed that the patience of the audience could possibly bear it, was put a stop to by another jerk of the bell, which, being the signal to begin in earnest, set the orchestra playing a variety of popular airs, with involuntary variations.
If Nicholas had been astonished at the alteration44 for the better which the gentlemen displayed, the transformation45 of the ladies was still more extraordinary. When, from a snug corner of the manager’s box, he beheld46 Miss Snevellicci in all the glories of white muslin with a golden hem25, and Mrs. Crummles in all the dignity of the outlaw’s wife, and Miss Bravassa in all the sweetness of Miss Snevellicci’s confidential47 friend, and Miss Belvawney in the white silks of a page doing duty everywhere and swearing to live and die in the service of everybody, he could scarcely contain his admiration48, which testified itself in great applause, and the closest possible attention to the business of the scene. The plot was most interesting. It belonged to no particular age, people, or country, and was perhaps the more delightful49 on that account, as nobody’s previous information could afford the remotest glimmering50 of what would ever come of it. An outlaw had been very successful in doing something somewhere, and came home, in triumph, to the sound of shouts and fiddles, to greet his wife—a lady of masculine mind, who talked a good deal about her father’s bones, which it seemed were unburied, though whether from a peculiar51 taste on the part of the old gentleman himself, or the reprehensible52 neglect of his relations, did not appear. This outlaw’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 of several of the characters, but he didn’t exactly know which, and was uncertain whether he had brought up the right ones in his castle, or the wrong ones; he rather inclined to the latter opinion, and, being uneasy, relieved his mind with a banquet, during which solemnity somebody in a cloak said ‘Beware!’ which somebody was known by nobody (except the audience) to be the outlaw himself, who had come there, for reasons unexplained, but possibly with an eye to the spoons. There was an agreeable little surprise in the way of certain love passages between the desponding captive and Miss Snevellicci, and the comic fighting-man and Miss Bravassa; besides which, Mr. Lenville had several very tragic53 scenes in the dark, while on throat-cutting expeditions, which were all baffled by the skill and bravery of the comic fighting-man (who overheard whatever was said all through the piece) and the intrepidity54 of Miss Snevellicci, who adopted tights, and therein repaired to the prison of her captive lover, with a small basket of refreshments55 and a dark lantern. At last, it came out that the patriarch was the man who had treated the bones of the outlaw’s father-in-law with so much disrespect, for which cause and reason the outlaw’s wife repaired to his castle to kill him, and so got into a dark room, where, after a good deal of groping in the dark, everybody got hold of everybody else, and took them for somebody besides, which occasioned a vast quantity of confusion, with some pistolling, loss of life, and torchlight; after which, the patriarch came forward, and observing, with a knowing look, that he knew all about his children now, and would tell them when they got inside, said that there could not be a more appropriate occasion for marrying the young people than that; and therefore he joined their hands, with the full consent of the indefatigable56 page, who (being the only other person surviving) pointed57 with his cap into the clouds, and his right hand to the ground; thereby58 invoking59 a blessing60 and giving the cue for the curtain to come down, which it did, amidst general applause.
‘What did you think of that?’ asked Mr. Crummles, when Nicholas went round to the stage again. Mr. Crummles was very red and hot, for your outlaws61 are desperate fellows to shout.
‘I think it was very capital indeed,’ replied Nicholas; ‘Miss Snevellicci 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 yours on her bespeak night.’
‘When?’ asked Nicholas.
‘The night of her bespeak. Her benefit night, when her friends and patrons bespeak the play,’ said Mr. Crummles.
‘Oh! I understand,’ replied Nicholas.
‘You see,’ said Mr. Crummles, ‘it’s sure to go, on such an occasion, and even if it should not work up quite as well as we expect, 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 Monday week. What do you say? You’ll have done it, and are sure to be up in the lover’s part, long before that time.’
‘I don’t know about “long before,”’ replied Nicholas; ‘but by that time 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 shall I call it?—a little canvassing62 takes place on these occasions.’
‘Among the patrons, I suppose?’ said Nicholas.
‘Among the patrons; and the fact is, that Snevellicci has had so many bespeaks63 in this place, that she wants an attraction. She had a bespeak when her mother-in-law died, and a bespeak when her uncle died; and Mrs Crummles and myself have had bespeaks on the anniversary of the phenomenon’s birthday, and our wedding-day, and occasions of that description, so that, in fact, there’s some difficulty in getting a good one. Now, won’t you help this poor girl, Mr. Johnson?’ said Crummles, sitting himself down on a drum, and taking a great pinch of snuff, as he looked him steadily64 in the face.
‘How do you mean?’ rejoined Nicholas.
‘Don’t you think you could spare half an hour tomorrow morning, to call with her at the houses of one or two of the principal people?’ murmured the manager in a persuasive65 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. ‘The moment it was suggested to me, I gave permission for the infant to go. There will not be the smallest impropriety—Miss Snevellicci, sir, is the very soul of honour. It would be of material service—the gentleman from London—author of the new piece—actor in the new piece—first appearance on any boards—it would lead to a great bespeak, Mr. Johnson.’
‘I am very sorry to throw a damp upon the prospects66 of anybody, and more especially a lady,’ replied Nicholas; ‘but really I must decidedly object to making one of the canvassing party.’
‘What does Mr. Johnson say, Vincent?’ inquired a voice close to his ear; and, looking round, he found Mrs. Crummles and Miss Snevellicci 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 so cruel—oh, dear me!—Well, I—to think of that now, after all one’s looking forward to it!’
‘Mr. Johnson will not persist, my dear,’ said Mrs. Crummles. ‘Think better of him than to suppose it. Gallantry, humanity, all the best feelings of his nature, must be enlisted67 in this interesting cause.’
‘Which moves even a manager,’ said Mr. Crummles, smiling.
‘And a manager’s wife,’ added Mrs. Crummles, in her accustomed tragedy tones. ‘Come, come, you will relent, I know you will.’
‘It is not in my nature,’ said Nicholas, moved by these appeals, ‘to resist any entreaty68, unless it is to do something positively69 wrong; and, beyond a feeling of pride, I know nothing which should prevent my doing this. I know nobody here, and nobody knows me. So be it then. I yield.’
Miss Snevellicci was at once overwhelmed with blushes and expressions of gratitude71, of which latter commodity neither Mr. nor Mrs. Crummles was by any means sparing. It was arranged that Nicholas should call upon her, at her lodgings, at eleven next morning, and soon after they parted: he to return home to his authorship: Miss Snevellicci to dress for the after-piece: and the disinterested72 manager and his wife to discuss the probable gains of the forthcoming bespeak, of which they were to have two-thirds of the profits by solemn treaty of agreement.
At the stipulated74 hour next morning, Nicholas repaired to the lodgings of Miss Snevellicci, which were in a place called Lombard Street, at the house of a tailor. A strong smell of ironing pervaded75 the little passage; and the tailor’s daughter, who opened the door, appeared in that flutter of spirits which is so often attendant upon the periodical getting up of a family’s linen76.
‘Miss Snevellicci lives here, I believe?’ said Nicholas, when the door was opened.
The tailor’s daughter replied in the affirmative.
‘Will you have the goodness to let her know that Mr. Johnson is here?’ said Nicholas.
‘Oh, if you please, you’re to come upstairs,’ replied the tailor’s daughter, with a smile.
Nicholas followed the young lady, and was shown into a small apartment on the first floor, communicating with a back-room; in which, as he judged from a certain half-subdued clinking sound, as of cups and saucers, Miss Snevellicci was then taking her breakfast in bed.
‘You’re to wait, if you please,’ said the tailor’s daughter, after a short period of absence, during which the clinking in the back-room had ceased, and been succeeded by whispering—‘She won’t be long.’
As she spoke77, she pulled up the window-blind, and having by this means (as she thought) diverted Mr. Johnson’s attention from the room to the street, caught up some articles which were airing on the fender, and had very much the appearance of stockings, and darted79 off.
As there were not many objects of interest outside the window, Nicholas looked about the room with more curiosity than he might otherwise have bestowed80 upon it. On the sofa lay an old guitar, several thumbed pieces of music, and a scattered82 litter of curl-papers; together with a confused heap of play-bills, and a pair of soiled white satin shoes with large blue rosettes. Hanging over the back of a chair was a half-finished muslin apron83 with little pockets ornamented84 with red ribbons, such as waiting-women wear on the stage, and (by consequence) are never seen with anywhere else. In one corner stood the diminutive85 pair of top-boots in which Miss Snevellicci was accustomed to enact86 the little jockey, and, folded on a chair hard by, was a small parcel, which bore a very suspicious resemblance to the companion smalls.
But the most interesting object of all was, perhaps, the open scrapbook, displayed in the midst of some theatrical87 duodecimos that were strewn upon the table; and pasted into which scrapbook were various critical notices of Miss Snevellicci’s acting88, extracted from different provincial89 journals, together with one poetic90 address in her honour, commencing—
Thrice-gifted Snevellicci came on earth,
To thrill us with her smile, her tear, her eye,
Sing, God of Love, and tell me quickly why.
Besides this effusion, there were innumerable complimentary92 allusions93, also extracted from newspapers, such as—‘We observe from an advertisement in another part of our paper of today, that the charming and highly-talented Miss Snevellicci takes her benefit on Wednesday, for which occasion she has put forth73 a bill of fare that might kindle94 exhilaration in the breast of a misanthrope95. In the confidence that our fellow-townsmen have not lost that high appreciation96 of public utility and private worth, for which they have long been so pre-eminently distinguished97, we predict that this charming actress will be greeted with a bumper98.’ ‘To Correspondents.—J.S. is misinformed when he supposes that the highly-gifted and beautiful Miss Snevellicci, nightly captivating all hearts at our pretty and commodious99 little theatre, is not the same lady to whom the young gentleman of immense fortune, residing within a hundred miles of the good city of York, lately made honourable100 proposals. We have reason to know that Miss Snevellicci is the lady who was implicated101 in that mysterious and romantic affair, and whose conduct on that occasion did no less honour to her head and heart, than do her histrionic triumphs to her brilliant genius.’ A copious102 assortment103 of such paragraphs as these, with long bills of benefits all ending with ‘Come Early’, in large capitals, formed the principal contents of Miss Snevellicci’s scrapbook.
Nicholas had read a great many of these scraps104, and was absorbed in a circumstantial and melancholy105 account of the train of events which had led to Miss Snevellicci’s spraining106 her ankle by slipping on a piece of orange-peel flung by a monster in human form, (so the paper said,) upon the stage at Winchester,—when that young lady herself, attired107 in the coal-scuttle bonnet108 and walking-dress complete, tripped into the room, with a thousand apologies for having detained him so long after the appointed time.
‘But really,’ said Miss Snevellicci, ‘my darling Led, who lives with me here, was taken so very ill in the night that I thought she would have expired in my arms.’
‘Such a fate is almost to be envied,’ returned Nicholas, ‘but I am very sorry to hear it nevertheless.’
‘What a creature you are to flatter!’ said Miss Snevellicci, buttoning her glove in much confusion.
‘If it be flattery to admire your charms and accomplishments,’ rejoined Nicholas, laying his hand upon the scrapbook, ‘you have better specimens109 of it here.’
‘Oh you cruel creature, to read such things as those! I’m almost ashamed to look you in the face afterwards, positively I am,’ said Miss Snevellicci, seizing the book and putting it away in a closet. ‘How careless of Led! How could she be so naughty!’
‘I thought you had kindly110 left it here, on purpose for me to read,’ said Nicholas. And really it did seem possible.
‘I wouldn’t have had you see it for the world!’ rejoined Miss Snevellicci. ‘I never was so vexed—never! But she is such a careless thing, there’s no trusting her.’
The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of the phenomenon, who had discreetly111 remained in the bedroom up to this moment, and now presented herself, with much grace and lightness, bearing in her hand a very little green parasol with a broad fringe border, and no handle. After a few words of course, they sallied into the street.
The phenomenon was rather a troublesome companion, for first the right sandal came down, and then the left, and these mischances being repaired, one leg of the little white trousers was discovered to be longer than the other; besides these accidents, the green parasol was dropped down an iron grating, and only fished up again with great difficulty and by dint112 of much exertion113. However, it was impossible to scold her, as she was the manager’s daughter, so Nicholas took it all in perfect good humour, and walked on, with Miss Snevellicci, arm-in-arm on one side, and the offending infant on the other.
The first house to which they bent114 their steps, was situated115 in a terrace of respectable appearance. Miss Snevellicci’s modest double-knock was answered by a foot-boy, who, in reply to her inquiry116 whether Mrs. Curdle117 was at home, opened his eyes very wide, grinned very much, and said he didn’t know, but he’d inquire. With this he showed them into a parlour where he kept them waiting, until the two women-servants had repaired thither118, under false pretences119, to see the play-actors; and having compared notes with them in the passage, and joined in a vast quantity of whispering and giggling120, he at length went upstairs with Miss Snevellicci’s name.
Now, Mrs. Curdle was supposed, by those who were best informed on such points, to possess quite the London taste in matters relating to literature and the drama; and as to Mr. Curdle, he had written a pamphlet of sixty-four pages, post octavo, on the character of the Nurse’s deceased husband in Romeo and Juliet, with an inquiry whether he really had been a ‘merry man’ in his lifetime, or whether it was merely his widow’s affectionate partiality that induced her so to report him. He had likewise proved, that by altering the received mode of punctuation121, any one of Shakespeare’s plays could be made quite different, and the sense completely changed; it is needless to say, therefore, that he was a great critic, and a very profound and most original thinker.
‘Well, Miss Snevellicci,’ said Mrs. Curdle, entering the parlour, ‘and how do you do?’
Miss Snevellicci made a graceful122 obeisance123, and hoped Mrs. Curdle was well, as also Mr. Curdle, who at the same time appeared. Mrs. Curdle was dressed in a morning wrapper, with a little cap stuck upon the top of her head. Mr Curdle wore a loose robe on his back, and his right forefinger124 on his forehead after the portraits of Sterne, to whom somebody or other had once said he bore a striking resemblance.
‘I venture to call, for the purpose of asking whether you would put your name to my bespeak, ma’am,’ said Miss Snevellicci, producing documents.
‘Oh! I really don’t know what to say,’ replied Mrs. Curdle. ‘It’s not as if the theatre was in its high and palmy days—you needn’t stand, Miss Snevellicci—the drama is gone, perfectly125 gone.’
‘As an exquisite embodiment of the poet’s visions, and a realisation of human intellectuality, gilding126 with refulgent127 light our dreamy moments, and laying open a new and magic world before the mental eye, the drama is gone, perfectly gone,’ said Mr. Curdle.
‘What man is there, now living, who can present before us all those changing and prismatic colours with which the character of Hamlet is invested?’ exclaimed Mrs. Curdle.
‘What man indeed—upon the stage,’ said Mr. Curdle, with a small reservation in favour of himself. ‘Hamlet! Pooh! ridiculous! Hamlet is gone, perfectly gone.’
Quite overcome by these dismal128 reflections, Mr. and Mrs. Curdle sighed, and sat for some short time without speaking. At length, the lady, turning to Miss Snevellicci, inquired what play she proposed to have.
‘Quite a new one,’ said Miss Snevellicci, ‘of which this gentleman is the author, and in which he plays; being his first appearance on any stage. Mr Johnson is the gentleman’s name.’
‘The original piece is a French one,’ said Nicholas. ‘There is abundance of incident, sprightly130 dialogue, strongly-marked characters—’
‘—All unavailing without a strict observance of the unities, sir,’ returned Mr. Curdle. ‘The unities of the drama, before everything.’
‘Might I ask you,’ said Nicholas, hesitating between the respect he ought to assume, and his love of the whimsical, ‘might I ask you what the unities are?’
Mr. Curdle coughed and considered. ‘The unities, sir,’ he said, ‘are a completeness—a kind of universal dovetailedness with regard to place and time—a sort of a general oneness, if I may be allowed to use so strong an expression. I take those to be the dramatic unities, so far as I have been enabled to bestow81 attention upon them, and I have read much upon the subject, and thought much. I find, running through the performances of this child,’ said Mr. Curdle, turning to the phenomenon, ‘a unity131 of feeling, a breadth, a light and shade, a warmth of colouring, a tone, a harmony, a glow, an artistical development of original conceptions, which I look for, in vain, among older performers—I don’t know whether I make myself understood?’
‘Perfectly,’ replied Nicholas.
‘Just so,’ said Mr. Curdle, pulling up his neckcloth. ‘That is my definition of the unities of the drama.’
Mrs. Curdle had sat listening to this lucid132 explanation with great complacency. It being finished, she inquired what Mr. Curdle thought, about putting down their names.
‘I don’t know, my dear; upon my word I don’t know,’ said Mr. Curdle. ‘If we do, it must be distinctly understood that we do not pledge ourselves to the quality of the performances. Let it go forth to the world, that we do not give them the sanction of our names, but that we confer the distinction merely upon Miss Snevellicci. That being clearly stated, I take it to be, as it were, a duty, that we should extend our patronage133 to a degraded stage, even for the sake of the associations with which it is entwined. Have you got two-and-sixpence for half-a-crown, Miss Snevellicci?’ said Mr. Curdle, turning over four of those pieces of money.
Miss Snevellicci felt in all the corners of the pink reticule, but there was nothing in any of them. Nicholas murmured a jest about his being an author, and thought it best not to go through the form of feeling in his own pockets at all.
‘Let me see,’ said Mr. Curdle; ‘twice four’s eight—four shillings a-piece to the boxes, Miss Snevellicci, is exceedingly dear in the present state of the drama—three half-crowns is seven-and-six; we shall not differ about sixpence, I suppose? Sixpence will not part us, Miss Snevellicci?’
Poor Miss Snevellicci took the three half-crowns, with many smiles and bends, and Mrs. Curdle, adding several supplementary134 directions relative to keeping the places for them, and dusting the seat, and sending two clean bills as soon as they came out, rang the bell, as a signal for breaking up the conference.
‘Odd people those,’ said Nicholas, when they got clear of the house.
‘I assure you,’ said Miss Snevellicci, taking his arm, ‘that I think myself very lucky they did not owe all the money instead of being sixpence short. Now, if you were to succeed, they would give people to understand that they had always patronised you; and if you were to fail, they would have been quite certain of that from the very beginning.’
At the next house they visited, they were in great glory; for, there, resided the six children who were so enraptured135 with the public actions of the phenomenon, and who, being called down from the nursery to be treated with a private view of that young lady, proceeded to poke78 their fingers into her eyes, and tread upon her toes, and show her many other little attentions peculiar to their time of life.
‘I shall certainly persuade Mr. Borum to take a private box,’ said the lady of the house, after a most gracious reception. ‘I shall only take two of the children, and will make up the rest of the party, of gentlemen—your admirers, Miss Snevellicci. Augustus, you naughty boy, leave the little girl alone.’
This was addressed to a young gentleman who was pinching the phenomenon behind, apparently136 with a view of ascertaining137 whether she was real.
‘I am sure you must be very tired,’ said the mama, turning to Miss Snevellicci. ‘I cannot think of allowing you to go, without first taking a glass of wine. Fie, Charlotte, I am ashamed of you! Miss Lane, my dear, pray see to the children.’
Miss Lane was the governess, and this entreaty was rendered necessary by the abrupt138 behaviour of the youngest Miss Borum, who, having filched139 the phenomenon’s little green parasol, was now carrying it bodily off, while the distracted infant looked helplessly on.
‘I am sure, where you ever learnt to act as you do,’ said good-natured Mrs Borum, turning again to Miss Snevellicci, ‘I cannot understand (Emma, don’t stare so); laughing in one piece, and crying in the next, and so natural in all—oh, dear!’
‘I am very happy to hear you express so favourable140 an opinion,’ said Miss Snevellicci. ‘It’s quite delightful to think you like it.’
‘Like it!’ cried Mrs. Borum. ‘Who can help liking141 it? I would go to the play, twice a week if I could: I dote upon it—only you’re too affecting sometimes. You do put me in such a state—into such fits of crying! Goodness gracious me, Miss Lane, how can you let them torment142 that poor child so!’
The phenomenon was really in a fair way of being torn limb from limb; for two strong little boys, one holding on by each of her hands, were dragging her in different directions as a trial of strength. However, Miss Lane (who had herself been too much occupied in contemplating the grown-up actors, to pay the necessary attention to these proceedings) rescued the unhappy infant at this juncture143, who, being recruited with a glass of wine, was shortly afterwards taken away by her friends, after sustaining no more serious damage than a flattening144 of the pink gauze bonnet, and a rather extensive creasing145 of the white frock and trousers.
It was a trying morning; for there were a great many calls to make, and everybody wanted a different thing. Some wanted tragedies, and others comedies; some objected to dancing; some wanted scarcely anything else. Some thought the comic singer decidedly low, and others hoped he would have more to do than he usually had. Some people wouldn’t promise to go, because other people wouldn’t promise to go; and other people wouldn’t go at all, because other people went. At length, and by little and little, omitting something in this place, and adding something in that, Miss Snevellicci pledged herself to a bill of fare which was comprehensive enough, if it had no other merit (it included among other trifles, four pieces, divers146 songs, a few combats, and several dances); and they returned home, pretty well exhausted147 with the business of the day.
Nicholas worked away at the piece, which was speedily put into rehearsal148, and then worked away at his own part, which he studied with great perseverance149 and acted—as the whole company said—to perfection. And at length the great day arrived. The crier was sent round, in the morning, to proclaim the entertainments with the sound of bell in all the thoroughfares; and extra bills of three feet long by nine inches wide, were dispersed150 in all directions, flung down all the areas, thrust under all the knockers, and developed in all the shops. They were placarded on all the walls too, though not with complete success, for an illiterate151 person having undertaken this office during the indisposition of the regular bill-sticker, a part were posted sideways, and the remainder upside down.
At half-past five, there was a rush of four people to the gallery-door; at a quarter before six, there were at least a dozen; at six o’clock the kicks were terrific; and when the elder Master Crummles opened the door, he was obliged to run behind it for his life. Fifteen shillings were taken by Mrs. Grudden in the first ten minutes.
Behind the scenes, the same unwonted excitement prevailed. Miss Snevellicci was in such a perspiration152 that the paint would scarcely stay on her face. Mrs. Crummles was so nervous that she could hardly remember her part. Miss Bravassa’s ringlets came out of curl with the heat and anxiety; even Mr. Crummles himself kept peeping through the hole in the curtain, and running back, every now and then, to announce that another man had come into the pit.
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Original
At last, the orchestra left off, and the curtain rose upon the new piece. The first scene, in which there was nobody particular, passed off calmly enough, but when Miss Snevellicci went on in the second, accompanied by the phenomenon as child, what a roar of applause broke out! The people in the Borum box rose as one man, waving their hats and handkerchiefs, and uttering shouts of ‘Bravo!’ Mrs. Borum and the governess cast wreaths upon the stage, of which, some fluttered into the lamps, and one crowned the temples of a fat gentleman in the pit, who, looking eagerly towards the scene, remained unconscious of the honour; the tailor and his family kicked at the panels of the upper boxes till they threatened to come out altogether; the very ginger-beer boy remained transfixed in the centre of the house; a young officer, supposed to entertain a passion for Miss Snevellicci, stuck his glass in his eye as though to hide a tear. Again and again Miss Snevellicci curtseyed lower and lower, and again and again the applause came down, louder and louder. At length, when the phenomenon picked up one of the smoking wreaths and put it on, sideways, over Miss Snevellicci’s eye, it reached its climax153, and the play proceeded.
But when Nicholas came on for his crack scene with Mrs. Crummles, what a clapping of hands there was! When Mrs. Crummles (who was his unworthy mother), sneered154, and called him ‘presumptuous boy,’ and he defied her, what a tumult155 of applause came on! When he quarrelled with the other gentleman about the young lady, and producing a case of pistols, said, that if he was a gentleman, he would fight him in that drawing-room, until the furniture was sprinkled with the blood of one, if not of two—how boxes, pit, and gallery, joined in one most vigorous cheer! When he called his mother names, because she wouldn’t give up the young lady’s property, and she relenting, caused him to relent likewise, and fall down on one knee and ask her blessing, how the ladies in the audience sobbed156! When he was hid behind the curtain in the dark, and the wicked relation poked157 a sharp sword in every direction, save where his legs were plainly visible, what a thrill of anxious fear ran through the house! His air, his figure, his walk, his look, everything he said or did, was the subject of commendation. There was a round of applause every time he spoke. And when, at last, in the pump-and-tub scene, Mrs. Grudden lighted the blue fire, and all the unemployed158 members of the company came in, and tumbled down in various directions—not because that had anything to do with the plot, but in order to finish off with a tableau—the audience (who had by this time increased considerably) gave vent70 to such a shout of enthusiasm as had not been heard in those walls for many and many a day.
In short, the success both of new piece and new actor was complete, and when Miss Snevellicci was called for at the end of the play, Nicholas led her on, and divided the applause.
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收听单词发音
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1
bespeak
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| v.预定；预先请求 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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8
bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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9
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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10
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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12
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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13
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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14
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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15
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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16
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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17
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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18
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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19
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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20
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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21
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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22
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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23
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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24
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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25
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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26
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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27
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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28
calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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29
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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30
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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31
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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32
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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33
outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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34
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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37
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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38
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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39
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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40
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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41
tuning
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| n.调谐，调整，调音v.调音( tune的现在分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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42
fiddles
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| n.小提琴( fiddle的名词复数 )；欺诈；（需要运用手指功夫的）细巧活动；当第二把手v.伪造( fiddle的第三人称单数 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
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43
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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44
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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45
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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46
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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47
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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48
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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49
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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50
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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51
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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52
reprehensible
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| adj.该受责备的 | |
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53
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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54
intrepidity
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| n.大胆，刚勇；大胆的行为 | |
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55
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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56
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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57
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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58
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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59
invoking
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| v.援引( invoke的现在分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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60
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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61
outlaws
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| 歹徒，亡命之徒( outlaw的名词复数 )； 逃犯 | |
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62
canvassing
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的现在分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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63
bespeaks
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| v.预定( bespeak的第三人称单数 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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64
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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65
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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66
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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67
enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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68
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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69
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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70
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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71
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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72
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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73
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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74
stipulated
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| vt.& vi.规定；约定adj.[法]合同规定的 | |
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75
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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77
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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78
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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79
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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80
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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82
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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83
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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84
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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86
enact
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| vt.制定(法律)；上演，扮演 | |
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87
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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88
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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89
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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91
dearth
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| n.缺乏，粮食不足，饥谨 | |
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92
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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misanthrope
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| n.恨人类的人；厌世者 | |
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96
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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98
bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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99
commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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100
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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103
assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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spraining
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| 扭伤（关节）( sprain的现在分词 ) | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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curdle
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| v.使凝结，变稠 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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punctuation
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| n.标点符号，标点法 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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obeisance
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| n.鞠躬，敬礼 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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refulgent
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| adj.辉煌的，灿烂的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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unities
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| n.统一体( unity的名词复数 )；（艺术等） 完整；（文学、戏剧） （情节、时间和地点的）统一性；团结一致 | |
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sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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supplementary
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| adj.补充的，附加的 | |
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enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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filched
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| v.偷（尤指小的或不贵重的物品）( filch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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flattening
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| n. 修平 动词flatten的现在分词 | |
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creasing
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的现在分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 挑檐 | |
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divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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151
illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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152
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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153
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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154
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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unemployed
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| adj.失业的，没有工作的；未动用的，闲置的 | |
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