‘As we gang awa’ fra’ Lunnun tomorrow neeght, and as I dinnot know that I was e’er so happy in a’ my days, Misther Nickleby, Ding! but I will tak’ anoother glass to our next merry meeting!’
So said John Browdie, rubbing his hands with great joyousness1, and looking round him with a ruddy shining face, quite in keeping with the declaration.
The time at which John found himself in this enviable condition was the same evening to which the last chapter bore reference; the place was the cottage; and the assembled company were Nicholas, Mrs. Nickleby, Mrs Browdie, Kate Nickleby, and Smike.
A very merry party they had been. Mrs. Nickleby, knowing of her son’s obligations to the honest Yorkshireman, had, after some demur2, yielded her consent to Mr. and Mrs. Browdie being invited out to tea; in the way of which arrangement, there were at first sundry3 difficulties and obstacles, arising out of her not having had an opportunity of ‘calling’ upon Mrs Browdie first; for although Mrs. Nickleby very often observed with much complacency (as most punctilious4 people do), that she had not an atom of pride or formality about her, still she was a great stickler5 for dignity and ceremonies; and as it was manifest that, until a call had been made, she could not be (politely speaking, and according to the laws of society) even cognisant of the fact of Mrs. Browdie’s existence, she felt her situation to be one of peculiar6 delicacy7 and difficulty.
‘The call must originate with me, my dear,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, ‘that’s indispensable. The fact is, my dear, that it’s necessary there should be a sort of condescension8 on my part, and that I should show this young person that I am willing to take notice of her. There’s a very respectable-looking young man,’ added Mrs. Nickleby, after a short consideration, ‘who is conductor to one of the omnibuses that go by here, and who wears a glazed9 hat—your sister and I have noticed him very often—he has a wart10 upon his nose, Kate, you know, exactly like a gentleman’s servant.’
‘Nicholas, my dear, how very absurd you are,’ returned his mother; ‘of course I mean that his glazed hat looks like a gentleman’s servant, and not the wart upon his nose; though even that is not so ridiculous as it may seem to you, for we had a footboy once, who had not only a wart, but a wen also, and a very large wen too, and he demanded to have his wages raised in consequence, because he found it came very expensive. Let me see, what was I—oh yes, I know. The best way that I can think of would be to send a card, and my compliments, (I’ve no doubt he’d take ‘em for a pot of porter,) by this young man, to the Saracen with Two Necks. If the waiter took him for a gentleman’s servant, so much the better. Then all Mrs. Browdie would have to do would be to send her card back by the carrier (he could easily come with a double knock), and there’s an end of it.’
‘My dear mother,’ said Nicholas, ‘I don’t suppose such unsophisticated people as these ever had a card of their own, or ever will have.’
‘Oh that, indeed, Nicholas, my dear,’ returned Mrs. Nickleby, ‘that’s another thing. If you put it upon that ground, why, of course, I have no more to say, than that I have no doubt they are very good sort of persons, and that I have no kind of objection to their coming here to tea if they like, and shall make a point of being very civil to them if they do.’
The point being thus effectually set at rest, and Mrs. Nickleby duly placed in the patronising and mildly-condescending position which became her rank and matrimonial years, Mr. and Mrs. Browdie were invited and came; and as they were very deferential12 to Mrs. Nickleby, and seemed to have a becoming appreciation13 of her greatness, and were very much pleased with everything, the good lady had more than once given Kate to understand, in a whisper, that she thought they were the very best-meaning people she had ever seen, and perfectly14 well behaved.
And thus it came to pass, that John Browdie declared, in the parlour after supper, to wit, and twenty minutes before eleven o’clock p.m., that he had never been so happy in all his days.
Nor was Mrs. Browdie much behind her husband in this respect, for that young matron, whose rustic15 beauty contrasted very prettily16 with the more delicate loveliness of Kate, and without suffering by the contrast either, for each served as it were to set off and decorate the other, could not sufficiently17 admire the gentle and winning manners of the young lady, or the engaging affability of the elder one. Then Kate had the art of turning the conversation to subjects upon which the country girl, bashful at first in strange company, could feel herself at home; and if Mrs. Nickleby was not quite so felicitous18 at times in the selection of topics of discourse19, or if she did seem, as Mrs. Browdie expressed it, ‘rather high in her notions,’ still nothing could be kinder, and that she took considerable interest in the young couple was manifest from the very long lectures on housewifery with which she was so obliging as to entertain Mrs. Browdie’s private ear, which were illustrated20 by various references to the domestic economy of the cottage, in which (those duties falling exclusively upon Kate) the good lady had about as much share, either in theory or practice, as any one of the statues of the Twelve Apostles which embellish21 the exterior22 of St Paul’s Cathedral.
‘Mr. Browdie,’ said Kate, addressing his young wife, ‘is the best-humoured, the kindest and heartiest23 creature I ever saw. If I were oppressed with I don’t know how many cares, it would make me happy only to look at him.’
‘He does seem indeed, upon my word, a most excellent creature, Kate,’ said Mrs. Nickleby; ‘most excellent. And I am sure that at all times it will give me pleasure—really pleasure now—to have you, Mrs. Browdie, to see me in this plain and homely24 manner. We make no display,’ said Mrs Nickleby, with an air which seemed to insinuate25 that they could make a vast deal if they were so disposed; ‘no fuss, no preparation; I wouldn’t allow it. I said, “Kate, my dear, you will only make Mrs. Browdie feel uncomfortable, and how very foolish and inconsiderate that would be!”’
‘I am very much obliged to you, I am sure, ma’am,’ returned Mrs. Browdie, gratefully. ‘It’s nearly eleven o’clock, John. I am afraid we are keeping you up very late, ma’am.’
‘Late!’ cried Mrs. Nickleby, with a sharp thin laugh, and one little cough at the end, like a note of admiration27 expressed. ‘This is quite early for us. We used to keep such hours! Twelve, one, two, three o’clock was nothing to us. Balls, dinners, card-parties! Never were such rakes as the people about where we used to live. I often think now, I am sure, that how we ever could go through with it is quite astonishing, and that is just the evil of having a large connection and being a great deal sought after, which I would recommend all young married people steadily28 to resist; though of course, and it’s perfectly clear, and a very happy thing too, I think, that very few young married people can be exposed to such temptations. There was one family in particular, that used to live about a mile from us—not straight down the road, but turning sharp off to the left by the turnpike where the Plymouth mail ran over the donkey—that were quite extraordinary people for giving the most extravagant29 parties, with artificial flowers and champagne30, and variegated31 lamps, and, in short, every delicacy of eating and drinking that the most singular epicure32 could possibly require. I don’t think that there ever were such people as those Peltiroguses. You remember the Peltiroguses, Kate?’
Kate saw that for the ease and comfort of the visitors it was high time to stay this flood of recollection, so answered that she entertained of the Peltiroguses a most vivid and distinct remembrance; and then said that Mr Browdie had half promised, early in the evening, that he would sing a Yorkshire song, and that she was most impatient that he should redeem33 his promise, because she was sure it would afford her mama more amusement and pleasure than it was possible to express.
Mrs. Nickleby confirming her daughter with the best possible grace—for there was patronage34 in that too, and a kind of implication that she had a discerning taste in such matters, and was something of a critic—John Browdie proceeded to consider the words of some north-country ditty, and to take his wife’s recollection respecting the same. This done, he made divers35 ungainly movements in his chair, and singling out one particular fly on the ceiling from the other flies there asleep, fixed36 his eyes upon him, and began to roar a meek37 sentiment (supposed to be uttered by a gentle swain fast pining away with love and despair) in a voice of thunder.
At the end of the first verse, as though some person without had waited until then to make himself audible, was heard a loud and violent knocking at the street-door; so loud and so violent, indeed, that the ladies started as by one accord, and John Browdie stopped.
‘It must be some mistake,’ said Nicholas, carelessly. ‘We know nobody who would come here at this hour.’
Mrs. Nickleby surmised38, however, that perhaps the counting-house was burnt down, or perhaps ‘the Mr. Cheerybles’ had sent to take Nicholas into partnership39 (which certainly appeared highly probable at that time of night), or perhaps Mr. Linkinwater had run away with the property, or perhaps Miss La Creevy was taken in, or perhaps—
But a hasty exclamation40 from Kate stopped her abruptly41 in her conjectures42, and Ralph Nickleby walked into the room.
‘Stay,’ said Ralph, as Nicholas rose, and Kate, making her way towards him, threw herself upon his arm. ‘Before that boy says a word, hear me.’
Nicholas bit his lip and shook his head in a threatening manner, but appeared for the moment unable to articulate a syllable43. Kate clung closer to his arm, Smike retreated behind them, and John Browdie, who had heard of Ralph, and appeared to have no great difficulty in recognising him, stepped between the old man and his young friend, as if with the intention of preventing either of them from advancing a step further.
‘Hear me, I say,’ said Ralph, ‘and not him.’
‘Say what thou’st gotten to say then, sir,’ retorted John; ‘and tak’ care thou dinnot put up angry bluid which thou’dst betther try to quiet.’
‘I should know you,’ said Ralph, ‘by your tongue; and him’ (pointing to Smike) ‘by his looks.’
‘Don’t speak to him,’ said Nicholas, recovering his voice. ‘I will not have it. I will not hear him. I do not know that man. I cannot breathe the air that he corrupts44. His presence is an insult to my sister. It is shame to see him. I will not bear it.’
‘Stand!’ cried John, laying his heavy hand upon his chest.
‘Then let him instantly retire,’ said Nicholas, struggling. ‘I am not going to lay hands upon him, but he shall withdraw. I will not have him here. John, John Browdie, is this my house, am I a child? If he stands there,’ cried Nicholas, burning with fury, ‘looking so calmly upon those who know his black and dastardly heart, he’ll drive me mad.’
To all these exclamations45 John Browdie answered not a word, but he retained his hold upon Nicholas; and when he was silent again, spoke46.
‘There’s more to say and hear than thou think’st for,’ said John. ‘I tell’ee I ha’ gotten scent47 o’ thot already. Wa’at be that shadow ootside door there? Noo, schoolmeasther, show thyself, mun; dinnot be sheame-feaced. Noo, auld48 gen’l’man, let’s have schoolmeasther, coom.’
Hearing this adjuration49, Mr. Squeers, who had been lingering in the passage until such time as it should be expedient50 for him to enter and he could appear with effect, was fain to present himself in a somewhat undignified and sneaking51 way; at which John Browdie laughed with such keen and heartfelt delight, that even Kate, in all the pain, anxiety, and surprise of the scene, and though the tears were in her eyes, felt a disposition52 to join him.
‘Have you done enjoying yourself, sir?’ said Ralph, at length.
‘Pratty nigh for the prasant time, sir,’ replied John.
‘I can wait,’ said Ralph. ‘Take your own time, pray.’
Ralph waited until there was a perfect silence, and then turning to Mrs Nickleby, but directing an eager glance at Kate, as if more anxious to watch his effect upon her, said:
‘Now, ma’am, listen to me. I don’t imagine that you were a party to a very fine tirade53 of words sent me by that boy of yours, because I don’t believe that under his control, you have the slightest will of your own, or that your advice, your opinion, your wants, your wishes, anything which in nature and reason (or of what use is your great experience?) ought to weigh with him, has the slightest influence or weight whatever, or is taken for a moment into account.’
Mrs. Nickleby shook her head and sighed, as if there were a good deal in that, certainly.
‘For this reason,’ resumed Ralph, ‘I address myself to you, ma’am. For this reason, partly, and partly because I do not wish to be disgraced by the acts of a vicious stripling whom I was obliged to disown, and who, afterwards, in his boyish majesty54, feigns55 to—ha! ha!—to disown me, I present myself here tonight. I have another motive56 in coming: a motive of humanity. I come here,’ said Ralph, looking round with a biting and triumphant57 smile, and gloating and dwelling58 upon the words as if he were loath59 to lose the pleasure of saying them, ‘to restore a parent his child. Ay, sir,’ he continued, bending eagerly forward, and addressing Nicholas, as he marked the change of his countenance60, ‘to restore a parent his child; his son, sir; trepanned, waylaid61, and guarded at every turn by you, with the base design of robbing him some day of any little wretched pittance62 of which he might become possessed63.’
‘In that, you know you lie,’ said Nicholas, proudly.
‘In this, I know I speak the truth. I have his father here,’ retorted Ralph.
‘Here!’ sneered64 Squeers, stepping forward. ‘Do you hear that? Here! Didn’t I tell you to be careful that his father didn’t turn up and send him back to me? Why, his father’s my friend; he’s to come back to me directly, he is. Now, what do you say—eh!—now—come—what do you say to that—an’t you sorry you took so much trouble for nothing? an’t you? an’t you?’
‘You bear upon your body certain marks I gave you,’ said Nicholas, looking quietly away, ‘and may talk in acknowledgment of them as much as you please. You’ll talk a long time before you rub them out, Mr. Squeers.’
The estimable gentleman last named cast a hasty look at the table, as if he were prompted by this retort to throw a jug65 or bottle at the head of Nicholas, but he was interrupted in this design (if such design he had) by Ralph, who, touching66 him on the elbow, bade him tell the father that he might now appear and claim his son.
This being purely67 a labour of love, Mr. Squeers readily complied, and leaving the room for the purpose, almost immediately returned, supporting a sleek68 personage with an oily face, who, bursting from him, and giving to view the form and face of Mr. Snawley, made straight up to Smike, and tucking that poor fellow’s head under his arm in a most uncouth69 and awkward embrace, elevated his broad-brimmed hat at arm’s length in the air as a token of devout70 thanksgiving, exclaiming, meanwhile, ‘How little did I think of this here joyful71 meeting, when I saw him last! Oh, how little did I think it!’
‘Be composed, sir,’ said Ralph, with a gruff expression of sympathy, ‘you have got him now.’
‘Got him! Oh, haven’t I got him! Have I got him, though?’ cried Mr Snawley, scarcely able to believe it. ‘Yes, here he is, flesh and blood, flesh and blood.’
‘Vary little flesh,’ said John Browdie.
Mr. Snawley was too much occupied by his parental72 feelings to notice this remark; and, to assure himself more completely of the restoration of his child, tucked his head under his arm again, and kept it there.
‘What was it,’ said Snawley, ‘that made me take such a strong interest in him, when that worthy73 instructor74 of youth brought him to my house? What was it that made me burn all over with a wish to chastise75 him severely76 for cutting away from his best friends, his pastors77 and masters?’
‘It was parental instinct, sir,’ observed Squeers.
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‘That’s what it was, sir,’ rejoined Snawley; ‘the elevated feeling, the feeling of the ancient Romans and Grecians, and of the beasts of the field and birds of the air, with the exception of rabbits and tom-cats, which sometimes devour78 their offspring. My heart yearned79 towards him. I could have—I don’t know what I couldn’t have done to him in the anger of a father.’
‘It only shows what Natur is, sir,’ said Mr. Squeers. ‘She’s rum ‘un, is Natur.’
‘She is a holy thing, sir,’ remarked Snawley.
‘I believe you,’ added Mr. Squeers, with a moral sigh. ‘I should like to know how we should ever get on without her. Natur,’ said Mr. Squeers, solemnly, ‘is more easier conceived than described. Oh what a blessed thing, sir, to be in a state of natur!’
Pending80 this philosophical81 discourse, the bystanders had been quite stupefied with amazement82, while Nicholas had looked keenly from Snawley to Squeers, and from Squeers to Ralph, divided between his feelings of disgust, doubt, and surprise. At this juncture83, Smike escaping from his father fled to Nicholas, and implored84 him, in most moving terms, never to give him up, but to let him live and die beside him.
‘If you are this boy’s father,’ said Nicholas, ‘look at the wreck85 he is, and tell me that you purpose to send him back to that loathsome86 den87 from which I brought him.’
‘Scandal again!’ cried Squeers. ‘Recollect, you an’t worth powder and shot, but I’ll be even with you one way or another.’
‘Stop,’ interposed Ralph, as Snawley was about to speak. ‘Let us cut this matter short, and not bandy words here with hare-brained profligates. This is your son, as you can prove. And you, Mr. Squeers, you know this boy to be the same that was with you for so many years under the name of Smike. Do you?’
‘Do I!’ returned Squeers. ‘Don’t I?’
‘Good,’ said Ralph; ‘a very few words will be sufficient here. You had a son by your first wife, Mr. Snawley?’
‘I had,’ replied that person, ‘and there he stands.’
‘We’ll show that presently,’ said Ralph. ‘You and your wife were separated, and she had the boy to live with her, when he was a year old. You received a communication from her, when you had lived apart a year or two, that the boy was dead; and you believed it?’
‘Of course I did!’ returned Snawley. ‘Oh the joy of—’
‘Be rational, sir, pray,’ said Ralph. ‘This is business, and transports interfere88 with it. This wife died a year and a half ago, or thereabouts—not more—in some obscure place, where she was housekeeper89 in a family. Is that the case?’
‘That’s the case,’ replied Snawley.
‘Having written on her death-bed a letter or confession90 to you, about this very boy, which, as it was not directed otherwise than in your name, only reached you, and that by a circuitous91 course, a few days since?’
‘Just so,’ said Snawley. ‘Correct in every particular, sir.’
‘And this confession,’ resumed Ralph, ‘is to the effect that his death was an invention of hers to wound you—was a part of a system of annoyance92, in short, which you seem to have adopted towards each other—that the boy lived, but was of weak and imperfect intellect—that she sent him by a trusty hand to a cheap school in Yorkshire—that she had paid for his education for some years, and then, being poor, and going a long way off, gradually deserted93 him, for which she prayed forgiveness?’
Snawley nodded his head, and wiped his eyes; the first slightly, the last violently.
‘The school was Mr. Squeers’s,’ continued Ralph; ‘the boy was left there in the name of Smike; every description was fully26 given, dates tally94 exactly with Mr. Squeers’s books, Mr. Squeers is lodging95 with you at this time; you have two other boys at his school: you communicated the whole discovery to him, he brought you to me as the person who had recommended to him the kidnapper96 of his child; and I brought you here. Is that so?’
‘You talk like a good book, sir, that’s got nothing in its inside but what’s the truth,’ replied Snawley.
‘This is your pocket-book,’ said Ralph, producing one from his coat; ‘the certificates of your first marriage and of the boy’s birth, and your wife’s two letters, and every other paper that can support these statements directly or by implication, are here, are they?’
‘Every one of ‘em, sir.’
‘And you don’t object to their being looked at here, so that these people may be convinced of your power to substantiate97 your claim at once in law and reason, and you may resume your control over your own son without more delay. Do I understand you?’
‘I couldn’t have understood myself better, sir.’
‘There, then,’ said Ralph, tossing the pocket-book upon the table. ‘Let them see them if they like; and as those are the original papers, I should recommend you to stand near while they are being examined, or you may chance to lose some.’
With these words Ralph sat down unbidden, and compressing his lips, which were for the moment slightly parted by a smile, folded his arms, and looked for the first time at his nephew.
Nicholas, stung by the concluding taunt98, darted99 an indignant glance at him; but commanding himself as well as he could, entered upon a close examination of the documents, at which John Browdie assisted. There was nothing about them which could be called in question. The certificates were regularly signed as extracts from the parish books, the first letter had a genuine appearance of having been written and preserved for some years, the handwriting of the second tallied100 with it exactly, (making proper allowance for its having been written by a person in extremity,) and there were several other corroboratory101 scraps102 of entries and memoranda103 which it was equally difficult to question.
‘Dear Nicholas,’ whispered Kate, who had been looking anxiously over his shoulder, ‘can this be really the case? Is this statement true?’
‘I fear it is,’ answered Nicholas. ‘What say you, John?’
John scratched his head and shook it, but said nothing at all.
‘You will observe, ma’am,’ said Ralph, addressing himself to Mrs. Nickleby, ‘that this boy being a minor104 and not of strong mind, we might have come here tonight, armed with the powers of the law, and backed by a troop of its myrmidons. I should have done so, ma’am, unquestionably, but for my regard for the feelings of yourself, and your daughter.’
‘You have shown your regard for her feelings well,’ said Nicholas, drawing his sister towards him.
‘Thank you,’ replied Ralph. ‘Your praise, sir, is commendation, indeed.’
‘Well,’ said Squeers, ‘what’s to be done? Them hackney-coach horses will catch cold if we don’t think of moving; there’s one of ‘em a sneezing now, so that he blows the street door right open. What’s the order of the day? Is Master Snawley to come along with us?’
‘No, no, no,’ replied Smike, drawing back, and clinging to Nicholas.
‘No. Pray, no. I will not go from you with him. No, no.’
‘This is a cruel thing,’ said Snawley, looking to his friends for support. ‘Do parents bring children into the world for this?’
‘Do parents bring children into the world for thot?’ said John Browdie bluntly, pointing, as he spoke, to Squeers.
‘Never you mind,’ retorted that gentleman, tapping his nose derisively105.
‘Never I mind!’ said John, ‘no, nor never nobody mind, say’st thou, schoolmeasther. It’s nobody’s minding that keeps sike men as thou afloat. Noo then, where be’est thou coomin’ to? Dang it, dinnot coom treadin’ ower me, mun.’
Suiting the action to the word, John Browdie just jerked his elbow into the chest of Mr. Squeers who was advancing upon Smike; with so much dexterity106 that the schoolmaster reeled and staggered back upon Ralph Nickleby, and being unable to recover his balance, knocked that gentleman off his chair, and stumbled heavily upon him.
This accidental circumstance was the signal for some very decisive proceedings107. In the midst of a great noise, occasioned by the prayers and entreaties108 of Smike, the cries and exclamations of the women, and the vehemence109 of the men, demonstrations110 were made of carrying off the lost son by violence. Squeers had actually begun to haul him out, when Nicholas (who, until then, had been evidently undecided how to act) took him by the collar, and shaking him so that such teeth as he had, chattered111 in his head, politely escorted him to the room-door, and thrusting him into the passage, shut it upon him.
‘Now,’ said Nicholas to the other two, ‘have the goodness to follow your friend.’
‘I want my son,’ said Snawley.
‘Your son,’ replied Nicholas, ‘chooses for himself. He chooses to remain here, and he shall.’
‘You won’t give him up?’ said Snawley.
‘I would not give him up against his will, to be the victim of such brutality112 as that to which you would consign113 him,’ replied Nicholas, ‘if he were a dog or a rat.’
‘Knock that Nickleby down with a candlestick,’ cried Mr. Squeers, through the keyhole, ‘and bring out my hat, somebody, will you, unless he wants to steal it.’
‘I am very sorry, indeed,’ said Mrs. Nickleby, who, with Mrs. Browdie, had stood crying and biting her fingers in a corner, while Kate (very pale, but perfectly quiet) had kept as near her brother as she could. ‘I am very sorry, indeed, for all this. I really don’t know what would be best to do, and that’s the truth. Nicholas ought to be the best judge, and I hope he is. Of course, it’s a hard thing to have to keep other people’s children, though young Mr. Snawley is certainly as useful and willing as it’s possible for anybody to be; but, if it could be settled in any friendly manner—if old Mr. Snawley, for instance, would settle to pay something certain for his board and lodging, and some fair arrangement was come to, so that we undertook to have fish twice a week, and a pudding twice, or a dumpling, or something of that sort—I do think that it might be very satisfactory and pleasant for all parties.’
This compromise, which was proposed with abundance of tears and sighs, not exactly meeting the point at issue, nobody took any notice of it; and poor Mrs. Nickleby accordingly proceeded to enlighten Mrs. Browdie upon the advantages of such a scheme, and the unhappy results flowing, on all occasions, from her not being attended to when she proffered114 her advice.
‘You, sir,’ said Snawley, addressing the terrified Smike, ‘are an unnatural115, ungrateful, unlovable boy. You won’t let me love you when I want to. Won’t you come home, won’t you?’
‘No, no, no,’ cried Smike, shrinking back.
‘He never loved nobody,’ bawled116 Squeers, through the keyhole. ‘He never loved me; he never loved Wackford, who is next door but one to a cherubim. How can you expect that he’ll love his father? He’ll never love his father, he won’t. He don’t know what it is to have a father. He don’t understand it. It an’t in him.’
Mr. Snawley looked steadfastly117 at his son for a full minute, and then covering his eyes with his hand, and once more raising his hat in the air, appeared deeply occupied in deploring118 his black ingratitude119. Then drawing his arm across his eyes, he picked up Mr. Squeers’s hat, and taking it under one arm, and his own under the other, walked slowly and sadly out.
‘Your romance, sir,’ said Ralph, lingering for a moment, ‘is destroyed, I take it. No unknown; no persecuted120 descendant of a man of high degree; but the weak, imbecile son of a poor, petty tradesman. We shall see how your sympathy melts before plain matter of fact.’
‘You shall,’ said Nicholas, motioning towards the door.
‘And trust me, sir,’ added Ralph, ‘that I never supposed you would give him up tonight. Pride, obstinacy121, reputation for fine feeling, were all against it. These must be brought down, sir, lowered, crushed, as they shall be soon. The protracted122 and wearing anxiety and expense of the law in its most oppressive form, its torture from hour to hour, its weary days and sleepless123 nights, with these I’ll prove you, and break your haughty124 spirit, strong as you deem it now. And when you make this house a hell, and visit these trials upon yonder wretched object (as you will; I know you), and those who think you now a young-fledged hero, we’ll go into old accounts between us two, and see who stands the debtor125, and comes out best at last, even before the world.’
Ralph Nickleby withdrew. But Mr. Squeers, who had heard a portion of this closing address, and was by this time wound up to a pitch of impotent malignity126 almost unprecedented127, could not refrain from returning to the parlour door, and actually cutting some dozen capers128 with various wry129 faces and hideous130 grimaces131, expressive132 of his triumphant confidence in the downfall and defeat of Nicholas.
Having concluded this war-dance, in which his short trousers and large boots had borne a very conspicuous133 figure, Mr. Squeers followed his friends, and the family were left to meditate134 upon recent occurrences.
点击收听单词发音
1 joyousness | |
快乐,使人喜悦 | |
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2 demur | |
v.表示异议,反对 | |
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3 sundry | |
adj.各式各样的,种种的 | |
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4 punctilious | |
adj.谨慎的,谨小慎微的 | |
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5 stickler | |
n.坚持细节之人 | |
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6 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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7 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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8 condescension | |
n.自以为高人一等,贬低(别人) | |
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9 glazed | |
adj.光滑的,像玻璃的;上过釉的;呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式);上釉于,上光;(目光)变得呆滞无神 | |
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10 wart | |
n.疣,肉赘;瑕疵 | |
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11 warts | |
n.疣( wart的名词复数 );肉赘;树瘤;缺点 | |
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12 deferential | |
adj. 敬意的,恭敬的 | |
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13 appreciation | |
n.评价;欣赏;感谢;领会,理解;价格上涨 | |
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14 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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15 rustic | |
adj.乡村的,有乡村特色的;n.乡下人,乡巴佬 | |
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16 prettily | |
adv.优美地;可爱地 | |
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17 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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18 felicitous | |
adj.恰当的,巧妙的;n.恰当,贴切 | |
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19 discourse | |
n.论文,演说;谈话;话语;vi.讲述,著述 | |
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20 illustrated | |
adj. 有插图的,列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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21 embellish | |
v.装饰,布置;给…添加细节,润饰 | |
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22 exterior | |
adj.外部的,外在的;表面的 | |
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23 heartiest | |
亲切的( hearty的最高级 ); 热诚的; 健壮的; 精神饱满的 | |
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24 homely | |
adj.家常的,简朴的;不漂亮的 | |
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25 insinuate | |
vt.含沙射影地说,暗示 | |
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26 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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27 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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28 steadily | |
adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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29 extravagant | |
adj.奢侈的;过分的;(言行等)放肆的 | |
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30 champagne | |
n.香槟酒;微黄色 | |
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31 variegated | |
adj.斑驳的,杂色的 | |
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32 epicure | |
n.行家,美食家 | |
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33 redeem | |
v.买回,赎回,挽回,恢复,履行(诺言等) | |
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34 patronage | |
n.赞助,支援,援助;光顾,捧场 | |
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35 divers | |
adj.不同的;种种的 | |
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36 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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37 meek | |
adj.温顺的,逆来顺受的 | |
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38 surmised | |
v.臆测,推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 );揣测;猜想 | |
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39 partnership | |
n.合作关系,伙伴关系 | |
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40 exclamation | |
n.感叹号,惊呼,惊叹词 | |
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41 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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42 conjectures | |
推测,猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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43 syllable | |
n.音节;vt.分音节 | |
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44 corrupts | |
(使)败坏( corrupt的第三人称单数 ); (使)腐化; 引起(计算机文件等的)错误; 破坏 | |
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45 exclamations | |
n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 );感叹;感叹语;感叹词 | |
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46 spoke | |
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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47 scent | |
n.气味,香味,香水,线索,嗅觉;v.嗅,发觉 | |
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48 auld | |
adj.老的,旧的 | |
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49 adjuration | |
n.祈求,命令 | |
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50 expedient | |
adj.有用的,有利的;n.紧急的办法,权宜之计 | |
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51 sneaking | |
a.秘密的,不公开的 | |
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52 disposition | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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53 tirade | |
n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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54 majesty | |
n.雄伟,壮丽,庄严,威严;最高权威,王权 | |
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55 feigns | |
假装,伪装( feign的第三人称单数 ); 捏造(借口、理由等) | |
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56 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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57 triumphant | |
adj.胜利的,成功的;狂欢的,喜悦的 | |
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58 dwelling | |
n.住宅,住所,寓所 | |
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59 loath | |
adj.不愿意的;勉强的 | |
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60 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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61 waylaid | |
v.拦截,拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62 pittance | |
n.微薄的薪水,少量 | |
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63 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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64 sneered | |
讥笑,冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65 jug | |
n.(有柄,小口,可盛水等的)大壶,罐,盂 | |
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66 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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67 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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68 sleek | |
adj.光滑的,井然有序的;v.使光滑,梳拢 | |
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69 uncouth | |
adj.无教养的,粗鲁的 | |
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70 devout | |
adj.虔诚的,虔敬的,衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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71 joyful | |
adj.欢乐的,令人欢欣的 | |
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72 parental | |
adj.父母的;父的;母的 | |
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73 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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74 instructor | |
n.指导者,教员,教练 | |
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75 chastise | |
vt.责骂,严惩 | |
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76 severely | |
adv.严格地;严厉地;非常恶劣地 | |
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77 pastors | |
n.(基督教的)牧师( pastor的名词复数 ) | |
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78 devour | |
v.吞没;贪婪地注视或谛听,贪读;使着迷 | |
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79 yearned | |
渴望,切盼,向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80 pending | |
prep.直到,等待…期间;adj.待定的;迫近的 | |
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81 philosophical | |
adj.哲学家的,哲学上的,达观的 | |
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82 amazement | |
n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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83 juncture | |
n.时刻,关键时刻,紧要关头 | |
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84 implored | |
恳求或乞求(某人)( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85 wreck | |
n.失事,遇难;沉船;vt.(船等)失事,遇难 | |
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86 loathsome | |
adj.讨厌的,令人厌恶的 | |
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87 den | |
n.兽穴;秘密地方;安静的小房间,私室 | |
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88 interfere | |
v.(in)干涉,干预;(with)妨碍,打扰 | |
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89 housekeeper | |
n.管理家务的主妇,女管家 | |
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90 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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91 circuitous | |
adj.迂回的路的,迂曲的,绕行的 | |
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92 annoyance | |
n.恼怒,生气,烦恼 | |
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93 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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94 tally | |
n.计数器,记分,一致,测量;vt.计算,记录,使一致;vi.计算,记分,一致 | |
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95 lodging | |
n.寄宿,住所;(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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96 kidnapper | |
n.绑架者,拐骗者 | |
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97 substantiate | |
v.证实;证明...有根据 | |
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98 taunt | |
n.辱骂,嘲弄;v.嘲弄 | |
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99 darted | |
v.投掷,投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 );向前冲,飞奔 | |
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100 tallied | |
v.计算,清点( tally的过去式和过去分词 );加标签(或标记)于;(使)符合;(使)吻合 | |
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101 corroboratory | |
adj.确定的,证实的 | |
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102 scraps | |
油渣 | |
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103 memoranda | |
n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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104 minor | |
adj.较小(少)的,较次要的;n.辅修学科;vi.辅修 | |
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105 derisively | |
adv. 嘲笑地,嘲弄地 | |
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106 dexterity | |
n.(手的)灵巧,灵活 | |
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107 proceedings | |
n.进程,过程,议程;诉讼(程序);公报 | |
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108 entreaties | |
n.恳求,乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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109 vehemence | |
n.热切;激烈;愤怒 | |
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110 demonstrations | |
证明( demonstration的名词复数 ); 表明; 表达; 游行示威 | |
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111 chattered | |
(人)喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 ); 唠叨; (牙齿)打战; (机器)震颤 | |
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112 brutality | |
n.野蛮的行为,残忍,野蛮 | |
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113 consign | |
vt.寄售(货品),托运,交托,委托 | |
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114 proffered | |
v.提供,贡献,提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115 unnatural | |
adj.不自然的;反常的 | |
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116 bawled | |
v.大叫,大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 );放声大哭;大声叫出;叫卖(货物) | |
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117 steadfastly | |
adv.踏实地,不变地;岿然;坚定不渝 | |
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118 deploring | |
v.悲叹,痛惜,强烈反对( deplore的现在分词 ) | |
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119 ingratitude | |
n.忘恩负义 | |
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120 persecuted | |
(尤指宗教或政治信仰的)迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 ); 烦扰,困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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121 obstinacy | |
n.顽固;(病痛等)难治 | |
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122 protracted | |
adj.拖延的;延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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123 sleepless | |
adj.不睡眠的,睡不著的,不休息的 | |
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124 haughty | |
adj.傲慢的,高傲的 | |
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125 debtor | |
n.借方,债务人 | |
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126 malignity | |
n.极度的恶意,恶毒;(病的)恶性 | |
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127 unprecedented | |
adj.无前例的,新奇的 | |
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128 capers | |
n.开玩笑( caper的名词复数 );刺山柑v.跳跃,雀跃( caper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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129 wry | |
adj.讽刺的;扭曲的 | |
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130 hideous | |
adj.丑陋的,可憎的,可怕的,恐怖的 | |
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131 grimaces | |
n.(表蔑视、厌恶等)面部扭曲,鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相,做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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132 expressive | |
adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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133 conspicuous | |
adj.明眼的,惹人注目的;炫耀的,摆阔气的 | |
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134 meditate | |
v.想,考虑,(尤指宗教上的)沉思,冥想 | |
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