Nicholas Nickleby

Introduces all the rest.

There once lived, in a sequestered part of the county of Devonshire, one Mr. Godfrey Nickleby: a worthy gentleman, who, taking it into his head rather late in life that he must get married, and not being young enough or rich enough to aspire to the hand of a lady of fortune, had wedded an old flame out of mere attachment, who in her turn had taken him for the same reason. Thus two people who cannot afford to play cards for money, sometimes sit down to a quiet game for love.

Some ill-conditioned persons who sneer at the life-matrimonial, may perhaps suggest, in this place, that the good couple would be better likened to two principals in a sparring match, who, when fortune is low and backers scarce, will chivalrously set to, for the mere pleasure of the buffeting; and in one respect indeed this comparison would hold good; for, as the adventurous pair of the Fives’ Court will afterwards send round a hat, and trust to the bounty of the lookers-on for the means of regaling themselves, so Mr. Godfrey Nickleby and his partner, the honeymoon being over, looked out wistfully into the world, relying in no inconsiderable degree upon chance for the improvement of their means. Mr. Nickleby’s income, at the period of his marriage, fluctuated between sixty and eighty pounds per annum.

“Put my hat down,” said Ralph, imperiously. “Well, ma’am, how do you do? You must bear up against sorrow, ma’am; I always do.”

“Mine was no common loss!” said Mrs. Nickleby, applying her handkerchief to her eyes.

“It was no uncommon loss, ma’am,” returned Ralph, as he coolly unbuttoned his spencer. “Husbands die every day, ma’am, and wives too.”

“And brothers also, sir,” said Nicholas, with a glance of indignation.

“Yes, sir, and puppies, and pug-dogs likewise,” replied his uncle, taking a chair. “You didn’t mention in your letter what my brother’s complaint was, ma’am.”

“The doctors could attribute it to no particular disease,” said Mrs. Nickleby; shedding tears. “We have too much reason to fear that he died of a broken heart.”

“Pooh!” said Ralph, “there’s no such thing. I can understand a man’s dying of a broken neck, or suffering from a broken arm, or a broken head, or a broken leg, or a broken nose; but a broken heart!⁠—nonsense, it’s the cant of the day. If a man can’t pay his debts, he dies of a broken heart, and his widow’s a martyr.”

“Some people, I believe, have no hearts to break,” observed Nicholas, quietly.

“How old is this boy, for God’s sake?” inquired Ralph, wheeling back his chair, and surveying his nephew from head to foot with intense scorn.

“Nicholas is very nearly nineteen,” replied the widow.

“Nineteen, eh!” said Ralph; “and what do you mean to do for your bread, sir?”

“Not to live upon my mother,” replied Nicholas, his heart swelling as he spoke.

“You’d have little enough to live upon, if you did,” retorted the uncle, eyeing him contemptuously.

“Half-past three,” muttered Mr. Squeers, turning from the window, and looking sulkily at the coffee-room clock. “There will be nobody here today.”

Much vexed by this reflection, Mr. Squeers looked at the little boy to see whether he was doing anything he could beat him for. As he happened not to be doing anything at all, he merely boxed his ears, and told him not to do it again.

“At Midsummer,” muttered Mr. Squeers, resuming his complaint, “I took down ten boys; ten twenties is two hundred pound. I go back at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, and have got only three⁠—three oughts is an ought⁠—three twos is six⁠—sixty pound. What’s come of all the boys? what’s parents got in their heads? what does it all mean?”

Here the little boy on the top of the trunk gave a violent sneeze.

“Halloa, sir!” growled the schoolmaster, turning round. “What’s that, sir?”

“Nothing, please sir,” replied the little boy.

“Nothing, sir!” exclaimed Mr. Squeers.

“Please sir, I sneezed,” rejoined the boy, trembling till the little trunk shook under him.

“Oh! sneezed, did you?” retorted Mr. Squeers. “Then what did you say ‘nothing’ for, sir?”

In default of a better answer to this question, the little boy screwed a couple of knuckles into each of his eyes and began to cry, wherefore Mr. Squeers knocked him off the trunk with a blow on one side of the face, and knocked him on again with a blow on the other.

“This is twopenn’orth of milk, is it, waiter?” said Mr. Squeers, looking down into a large blue mug, and slanting it gently, so as to get an accurate view of the quantity of liquid contained in it.

“That’s twopenn’orth, sir,” replied the waiter.

“What a rare article milk is, to be sure, in London!” said Mr. Squeers, with a sigh. “Just fill that mug up with lukewarm water, William, will you?”

“To the wery top, sir?” inquired the waiter. “Why, the milk will be drownded.”

“Never you mind that,” replied Mr. Squeers. “Serve it right for being so dear. You ordered that thick bread and butter for three, did you?”

“Coming directly, sir.”

“You needn’t hurry yourself,” said Squeers; “there’s plenty of time. Conquer your passions, boys, and don’t be eager after vittles.” As he uttered this moral precept, Mr. Squeers took a large bite out of the cold beef, and recognised Nicholas.

“Sit down, Mr. Nickleby,” said Squeers. “Here we are, a breakfasting you see!”

Nicholas did not see that anybody was breakfasting, except Mr. Squeers; but he bowed with all becoming reverence, and looked as cheerful as he could.

“Oh! that’s the milk and water, is it, William?” said Squeers. “Very good; don’t forget the bread and butter presently.”

At this fresh mention of the bread and butter, the five little boys looked very eager, and followed the waiter out, with their eyes; meanwhile Mr. Squeers tasted the milk and water.

“Ah!” said that gentleman, smacking his lips, “here’s richness! Think of the many beggars and orphans in the streets that would be glad of this, little boys. A shocking thing hunger, isn’t it, Mr. Nickleby?”

Mrs. Squeers, being out of breath with her exertions, complied. Squeers caught the boy firmly in his grip; one desperate cut had fallen on his body⁠—he was wincing from the lash and uttering a scream of pain⁠—it was raised again, and again about to fall⁠—when Nicholas Nickleby, suddenly starting up, cried “Stop!” in a voice that made the rafters ring.

“Who cried stop?” said Squeers, turning savagely round.

“I,” said Nicholas, stepping forward. “This must not go on.”

“Must not go on!” cried Squeers, almost in a shriek.

“No!” thundered Nicholas.

Aghast and stupefied by the boldness of the interference, Squeers released his hold of Smike, and, falling back a pace or two, gazed upon Nicholas with looks that were positively frightful.

“I say must not,” repeated Nicholas, nothing daunted; “shall not. I will prevent it.”

Squeers continued to gaze upon him, with his eyes starting out of his head; but astonishment had actually, for the moment, bereft him of speech.

“You have disregarded all my quiet interference in the miserable lad’s behalf,” said Nicholas; “you have returned no answer to the letter in which I begged forgiveness for him, and offered to be responsible that he would remain quietly here. Don’t blame me for this public interference. You have brought it upon yourself; not I.”

“Sit down, beggar!” screamed Squeers, almost beside himself with rage, and seizing Smike as he spoke.

“Wretch,” rejoined Nicholas, fiercely, “touch him at your peril! I will not stand by, and see it done.