Oliver Twist
rage had engendered; fixed the cocked hat on again; and, turning to the
undertaker, said in a calmer voice:
“Well; what about the boy?”
“Oh!” replied the undertaker; “why, you know, Mr. Bumble, I pay a good
deal towards the poor’s rates.”
“Hem!” said Mr. Bumble. “Well?”
“Well,” replied the undertaker, “I was thinking that if I pay so much
towards ’em, I’ve a right to get as much out of ’em as I can, Mr.
Bumble; and so—I think I’ll take the boy myself.”
Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm, and led him into the
building. Mr. Sowerberry was closeted with the board for five minutes;
and it was arranged that Oliver should go to him that evening “upon
liking”—a phrase which means, in the case of a parish apprentice, that
if the master find, upon a short trial, that he can get enough work out
of a boy without putting too much food into him, he shall have him for
a term of years, to do what he likes with.
When little Oliver was taken before “the gentlemen” that evening; and
informed that he was to go, that night, as general house-lad to a
coffin-maker’s; and that if he complained of his situation, or ever
came back to the parish again, he would be sent to sea, there to be
drowned, or knocked on the head, as the case might be, he evinced so
little emotion, that they by common consent pronounced him a hardened
young rascal, and ordered Mr. Bumble to remove him forthwith.
Now, although it was very natural that the board, of all people in the
world, should feel in a great state of virtuous astonishment and horror
at the smallest tokens of want of feeling on the part of anybody, they
were rather out, in this particular instance. The simple fact was, that
Oliver, instead of possessing too little feeling, possessed rather too
much; and was in a fair way of being reduced, for life, to a state of
brutal stupidity and sullenness by the ill usage he had received. He
heard the news of his destination, in perfect silence; and, having had
his luggage put into his hand—which was not very difficult to carry,
inasmuch as it was all comprised within the limits of a brown paper
parcel, about half a foot square by three inches deep—he pulled his cap
over his eyes; and once more attaching himself to Mr. Bumble’s coat
cuff, was led away by that dignitary to a new scene of suffering.
For some time, Mr. Bumble drew Oliver along, without notice or remark;
for the beadle carried his head very erect, as a beadle always should:
and, it being a windy day, little Oliver was completely enshrouded by
the skirts of Mr. Bumble’s coat as they blew open, and disclosed to
great advantage his flapped waistcoat and drab plush knee-breeches. As
they drew near to their destination, however, Mr. Bumble thought it
expedient to look down, and see that the boy was in good order for
inspection by his new master: which he accordingly did, with a fit and
becoming air of gracious patronage.
“Oliver!” said Mr. Bumble.
“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver, in a low, tremulous voice.
“Pull that cap off your eyes, and hold up your head, sir.”
Although Oliver did as he was desired, at once; and passed the back of
his unoccupied hand briskly across his eyes, he left a tear in them
when he looked up at his conductor. As Mr. Bumble gazed sternly upon
him, it rolled down his cheek. It was followed by another, and another.
The child made a strong effort, but it was an unsuccessful one.
Withdrawing his other hand from Mr. Bumble’s he covered his face with
both; and wept until the tears sprung out from between his chin and
bony fingers.
“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little
charge a look of intense malignity. “Well! Of _all_ the ungratefullest,
and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are the—”
“No, no, sir,” sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the
well-known cane; “no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed I
will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it is so—so—”
“So what?” inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement.
“So lonely, sir! So very lonely!” cried the child. “Everybody hates me.
Oh! sir, don’t, don’t pray be cross to me!” The child beat his hand
upon his heart; and looked in his companion’s face, with tears of real
agony.
Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver’s piteous and helpless look, with some
astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky
manner; and after muttering something about “that troublesome cough,”
bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his
hand, he walked on with him in silence.
The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was
making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate
dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.
“Aha!” said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausing in
the middle of a word; “is that you, Bumble?”
“No one else, Mr. Sowerberry,” replied the beadle. “Here! I’ve brought
the boy.” Oliver made a bow.
“Oh! that’s the boy, is it?” said the undertaker: raising the candle
above his head, to get a better view of Oliver. “Mrs. Sowerberry, will
you have the goodness to come here a moment, my dear?”
Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and
presented the form of a short, thin, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish
countenance.
“My dear,” said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, “this is the boy from
the workhouse that I told you of.” Oliver bowed again.
“Dear me!” said the undertaker’s wife, “he’s very small.”
“Why, he _is_ rather small,” replied Mr. Bumble: looking at Oliver as
if it were his fault that he was no bigger; “he is small. There’s no
denying it. But he’ll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry—he’ll grow.”
“Ah! I dare say he will,” replied the lady pettishly, “on our victuals
and our drink. I see no saving in parish children, not I; for they
always cost more to keep, than they’re worth. However, men always think
they know best. There! Get downstairs, little bag o’ bones.” With this,
the undertaker’s wife opened a side door, and pushed Oliver down a
steep flight of stairs into a stone cell, damp and dark: forming the
ante-room to the coal-cellar, and denominated “kitchen”; wherein sat a
slatternly girl, in shoes down at heel, and blue worsted stockings very
much out of repair.
“Here, Charlotte,” said Mr. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down,
“give this boy some of the cold bits that were put by for Trip. He
hasn’t come home since the morning, so he may go without ’em. I dare
say the boy isn’t too dainty to eat ’em—are you, boy?”
Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was
trembling with eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative; and a
plateful of coarse broken victuals was set before him.
I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn to gall
within him; whose blood is ice, whose heart is iron; could have seen
Oliver Twist clutching at the dainty viands that the dog had neglected.
I wish he could have witnessed the horrible avidity with which Oliver
tore the bits asunder with all the ferocity of famine. There is only
one thing I should like better; and that would be to see the
Philosopher making the same sort of meal himself, with the same relish.
“Well,” said the undertaker’s wife, when Oliver had finished his
supper: which she had regarded in silent horror, and with fearful
auguries of his future appetite: “have you done?”
There being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver replied in the
affirmative.
“Then come with me,” said Mrs. Sowerberry: taking up a dim and dirty
lamp, and leading the way upstairs; “your bed’s under the counter. You
don’t mind sleeping among the coffins, I suppose? But it doesn’t much
matter whether you do or don’t, for you can’t sleep anywhere else.
Come; don’t keep me here all night!”
Oliver lingered no longer, but meekly followed his new mistress.
CHAPTER V.
OLIVER MINGLES WITH NEW ASSOCIATES. GOING TO A FUNERAL FOR THE FIRST
TIME, HE FORMS AN UNFAVOURABLE NOTION OF HIS MASTER’S BUSINESS
Oliver, being left to himself in the undertaker’s shop, set the lamp
down on a workman’s bench, and gazed timidly about him with a feeling
of awe and dread, which many people a good deal older than he will be
at no loss to understand. An unfinished coffin on black tressels, which
stood in the middle of the shop, looked so gloomy and death-like that a
cold tremble came over him, every time his eyes wandered in the
direction of the dismal object: from which he almost expected to see
some frightful form slowly rear its head, to drive him mad with terror.
Against the wall were ranged, in regular array, a long row of elm
boards cut in the same shape: looking in the dim light, like
high-shouldered ghosts with their hands in their breeches pockets.
Coffin-plates, elm-chips, bright-headed nails, and shreds of black
cloth, lay scattered on the floor; and the wall behind the counter was
ornamented with a lively representation of two mutes in very stiff
neckcloths, on duty at a large private door, with a hearse drawn by
four black steeds, approaching in the distance. The shop was close and
hot. The atmosphere seemed tainted with the smell of coffins. The
recess beneath the counter in which his flock mattress was thrust,
looked like a grave.
Nor were these the only dismal feelings which depressed Oliver. He was
alone in a strange place; and we all know how chilled and desolate the
best of us will sometimes feel in such a situation. The boy had no
friends to care for, or to care for him. The regret of no recent
separation was fresh in his mind; the absence of no loved and
well-remembered face sank heavily into his heart.
But his heart was heavy, notwithstanding; and he wished, as he crept
into his narrow bed, that that were his coffin, and that he could be
lain in a calm and lasting sleep in the churchyard ground, with the
tall grass waving gently above his head, and the sound of the old deep
bell to soothe him in his sleep.
Oliver was awakened in the morning, by a loud kicking at the outside of
the shop-door: which, before he could huddle on his clothes, was
repeated, in an angry and impetuous manner, about twenty-five times.
When he began to undo the chain, the legs desisted, and a voice began.
“Open the door, will yer?” cried the voice which belonged to the legs
which had kicked at the door.
“I will, directly, sir,” replied Oliver: undoing the chain, and turning
the key.
“I suppose yer the new boy, ain’t yer?” said the voice through the
key-hole.
“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver.
“How old are yer?” inquired the voice.
“Ten, sir,” replied Oliver.
“Then I’ll whop yer when I get in,” said the voice; “you just see if I
don’t, that’s all, my work’us brat!” and having made this obliging
promise, the voice began to whistle.
Oliver had been too often subjected to the process to which the very
expressive monosyllable just recorded bears reference, to entertain the
smallest doubt that the owner of the voice, whoever he might be, would
redeem his pledge, most honourably. He drew back the bolts with a
trembling hand, and opened the door.
For a second or two, Oliver glanced up the street, and down the street,
and over the way: impressed with the belief that the unknown, who had
addressed him through the key-hole, had walked a few paces off, to warm
himself; for nobody did he see but a big charity-boy, sitting on a post
in front of the house, eating a slice of bread and butter: which he cut
into wedges, the size of his mouth, with a clasp-knife, and then
consumed with great dexterity.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Oliver at length: seeing that no other
visitor made his appearance; “did you knock?”
“I kicked,” replied the charity-boy.
“Did you want a coffin, sir?” inquired Oliver, innocently.