The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby by Charles Dickens (books to read this summer txt) 📕

‘A most biddable creature he is, to be sure,’ said Mrs Nickleby, when Smike had wished them good-night and left the room. ‘I know you’ll excuse me, Nicholas, my dear, but I don’t like to do this before a third person; indeed, before a young man it would not be quite proper, though really, after all, I don’t know what harm there is in it, except that to be sure it’s not a very becoming thing, though some people say it is very much so, and really I don’t know why it should not be, if it’s well got up, and the borders are small-plaited; of course, a good deal depends upon that.’

With which preface, Mrs Nickleby took her nightcap from between the leaves of a very large prayer-book where it had been folded up small, and proceeded to tie it on: talking away in her usual discursive manner, all the time.

‘People may say what they like,’ observed Mrs Nickleby, ‘but there’s a great deal of comfort in a nightcap, as I’m sure you would confess, Nicholas my dear, if you would only have strings to yours, and wear it like a Christian, instead of sticking it upon the very top of your head like a blue-coat boy. You needn’t think it an unmanly or quizzical thing to be particular about your nightcap, for I have often heard your poor dear papa, and the Reverend Mr What’s-his-name, who used to read prayers in that old church with the curious little steeple that the weathercock was blown off the night week before you were born,—I have often heard them say, that the young men at college are uncommonly particular about their nightcaps, and that the Oxford nightcaps are quite celebrated for their strength and goodness; so much so, indeed, that the young men never dream of going to bed without ‘em, and I believe it’s admitted on all hands that THEY know what’s good, and don’t coddle themselves.’

Nicholas laughed, and entering no further into the subject of this lengthened harangue, reverted to the pleasant tone of the little birthday party. And as Mrs Nickleby instantly became very curious respecting it, and made a great number of inquiries touching what they had had for dinner, and how it was put on table, and whether it was overdone or underdone, and who was there, and what ‘the Mr Cherrybles’ said, and what Nicholas said, and what the Mr Cherrybles said when he said that; Nicholas described the festivities at full length, and also the occurrences of the morning.

‘Late as it is,’ said Nicholas, ‘I am almost selfish enough to wish that Kate had been up to hear all this. I was all impatience, as I came along, to tell her.’

‘Why, Kate,’ said Mrs Nickleby, putting her feet upon the fender, and drawing her chair close to it, as if settling herself for a long talk. ‘Kate has been in bed—oh! a couple of hours—and I’m very glad, Nicholas my dear, that I prevailed upon her not to sit up, for I wished very much to have an opportunity of saying a few words to you. I am naturally anxious about it, and of course it’s a very delightful and consoling thing to have a grown-up son that one can put confidence in, and advise with; indeed I don’t know any use there would be in having sons at all, unless people could put confidence in them.’

Nicholas stopped in the middle of a sleepy yawn, as his mother began to speak: and looked at her with fixed attention.

‘There was a lady in our neighbourhood,’ said Mrs Nickleby, ‘speaking of sons puts me in mind of it—a lady in our neighbourhood when we lived near Dawlish, I think her name was Rogers; indeed I am sure it was if it wasn’t Murphy, which is the only doubt I have—’

‘Is it about her, mother, that you wished to speak to me?’ said Nicholas quietly.

‘About HER!’ cried Mrs Nickleby. ‘Good gracious, Nicholas, my dear, how CAN you be so ridiculous! But that was always the way with your poor dear papa,—just his way—always wandering, never able to fix his thoughts on any one subject for two minutes together. I think I see him now!’ said Mrs Nickleby, wiping her eyes, ‘looking at me while I was talking to him about his affairs, just as if his ideas were in a state of perfect conglomeration! Anybody who had come in upon us suddenly, would have supposed I was confusing and distracting him instead of making things plainer; upon my word they would.’

‘I am very sorry, mother, that I should inherit this unfortunate slowness of apprehension,’ said Nicholas, kindly; ‘but I’ll do my best to understand you, if you’ll only go straight on: indeed I will.’

‘Your poor pa!’ said Mrs Nickleby, pondering. ‘He never knew, till it was too late, what I would have had him do!’

This was undoubtedly the case, inasmuch as the deceased Mr Nickleby had not arrived at the knowledge. Then he died. Neither had Mrs Nickleby herself; which is, in some sort, an explanation of the circumstance.

‘However,’ said Mrs Nickleby, drying her tears, ‘this has nothing to do—certainly nothing whatever to do—with the gentleman in the next house.’

‘I should suppose that the gentleman in the next house has as little to do with us,’ returned Nicholas.

‘There can be no doubt,’ said Mrs Nickleby, ‘that he IS a gentleman, and has the manners of a gentleman, and the appearance of a gentleman, although he does wear smalls and grey worsted stockings. That may be eccentricity, or he may be proud of his legs. I don’t see why he shouldn’t be. The Prince Regent was proud of his legs, and so was Daniel Lambert, who was also a fat man; HE was proud of his legs. So was Miss Biffin: she was—no,’ added Mrs Nickleby, correcting, herself, ‘I think she had only toes, but the principle is the same.’

Nicholas looked on, quite amazed at the introduction of this new theme. Which seemed just what Mrs Nickleby had expected him to be.

‘You may well be surprised, Nicholas, my dear,’ she said, ‘I am sure I was. It came upon me like a flash of fire, and almost froze my blood. The bottom of his garden joins the bottom of ours, and of course I had several times seen him sitting among the scarlet-beans in his little arbour, or working at his little hot-beds. I used to think he stared rather, but I didn’t take any particular notice of that, as we were newcomers, and he might be curious to see what we were like. But when he began to throw his cucumbers over our wall—’

‘To throw his cucumbers over our wall!’ repeated Nicholas, in great astonishment.

‘Yes, Nicholas, my dear,’ replied Mrs Nickleby in a very serious tone; ‘his cucumbers over our wall. And vegetable marrows likewise.’

‘Confound his impudence!’ said Nicholas, firing immediately. ‘What does he mean by that?’

‘I don’t think he means it impertinently at all,’ replied Mrs Nickleby.

‘What!’ said Nicholas, ‘cucumbers and vegetable marrows flying at the heads of the family as they walk in their own garden, and not meant impertinently! Why, mother—’

Nicholas stopped short; for there was an indescribable expression of placid triumph, mingled with a modest confusion, lingering between the borders of Mrs Nickleby’s nightcap, which arrested his attention suddenly.

‘He must be a very weak, and foolish, and inconsiderate man,’ said Mrs Nickleby; ‘blamable indeed—at least I suppose other people would consider him so; of course I can’t be expected to express any opinion on that point, especially after always defending your poor dear papa when other people blamed him for making proposals to me; and to be sure there can be no doubt that he has taken a very singular way of showing it. Still at the same time, his attentions are—that is, as far as it goes, and to a certain extent of course— a flattering sort of thing; and although I should never dream of marrying again with a dear girl like Kate still unsettled in life—’

‘Surely, mother, such an idea never entered your brain for an instant?’ said Nicholas.

‘Bless my heart, Nicholas my dear,’ returned his mother in a peevish tone, ‘isn’t that precisely what I am saying, if you would only let me speak? Of course, I never gave it a second thought, and I am surprised and astonished that you should suppose me capable of such a thing. All I say is, what step is the best to take, so as to reject these advances civilly and delicately, and without hurting his feelings too much, and driving him to despair, or anything of that kind? My goodness me!’ exclaimed Mrs Nickleby, with a half-simper, ‘suppose he was to go doing anything rash to himself. Could I ever be happy again, Nicholas?’

Despite his vexation and concern, Nicholas could scarcely help smiling, as he rejoined, ‘Now, do you think, mother, that such a result would be likely to ensue from the most cruel repulse?’

‘Upon my word, my dear, I don’t know,” returned Mrs Nickleby; ‘really, I don’t know. I am sure there was a case in the day before yesterday’s paper, extracted from one of the French newspapers, about a journeyman shoemaker who was jealous of a young girl in an adjoining village, because she wouldn’t shut herself up in an air-tight three-pair-of-stairs, and charcoal herself to death with him; and who went and hid himself in a wood with a sharp-pointed knife, and rushed out, as she was passing by with a few friends, and killed himself first, and then all the friends, and then her—no, killed all the friends first, and then herself, and then HIMself—which it is quite frightful to think of. Somehow or other,’ added Mrs Nickleby, after a momentary pause, ‘they always ARE journeyman shoemakers who do these things in France, according to the papers. I don’t know how it is—something in the leather, I suppose.’

‘But this man, who is not a shoemaker—what has he done, mother, what has he said?’ inquired Nicholas, fretted almost beyond endurance, but looking nearly as resigned and patient as Mrs Nickleby herself. ‘You know, there is no language of vegetables, which converts a cucumber into a formal declaration of attachment.’

‘My dear,’ replied Mrs Nickleby, tossing her head and looking at the ashes in the grate, ‘he has done and said all sorts of things.’

‘Is there no mistake on your part?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Mistake!’ cried Mrs Nickleby. ‘Lord, Nicholas my dear, do you suppose I don’t know when a man’s in earnest?’

‘Well, well!’ muttered Nicholas.

‘Every time I go to the window,’ said Mrs Nickleby, ‘he kisses one hand, and lays the other upon his heart—of course it’s very foolish of him to do so, and I dare say you’ll say it’s very wrong, but he does it very respectfully—very respectfully indeed—and very tenderly, extremely tenderly. So far, he deserves the greatest credit; there can be no doubt about that. Then, there are the presents which come pouring over the wall every day, and very fine they certainly are, very fine; we had one of the cucumbers at dinner yesterday, and think of pickling the rest for next winter. And last evening,’ added Mrs Nickleby, with increased confusion, ‘he called gently over the wall, as I was walking in the garden, and proposed marriage, and an elopement. His voice is as clear as a bell or a musical glass—very like a musical glass indeed—but of course I didn’t listen to it. Then, the question is, Nicholas my dear, what am I to do?’

‘Does Kate know of this?’ asked Nicholas.

‘I have not said a word about it yet,’ answered his mother.

‘Then, for Heaven’s sake,’ rejoined Nicholas, rising, ‘do not, for it would