Oliver Twist, by Charles Dickens (1837-39) - Chapter 7
CHAPTER VII
OLIVER CONTINUES REFRACTORY
Noah Claypole ran along the streets at his swiftest
pace, and paused not once for breath, until he reached the workhouse-gate.
Having rested here, for a minute or so, to collect a good burst of sobs and an
imposing show of tears and terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket; and
presented such a rueful face to the aged pauper who opened it, that even he, who
saw nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of times, started back in
astonishment.
'Why, what's the matter with the boy!' said the old
pauper.
'Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!' cried Noah, wit well-affected
dismay: and in tones so loud and agitated, that they not only caught the ear of
Mr. Bumble himself, who happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much that he
rushed into the yard without his cocked hat, --which is a very curious and
remarkable circumstance: as showing that even a beadle, acted upon a sudden and
powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a momentary visitation of loss of
self-possession, and forgetfulness of personal dignity.
'Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!' said Noah: 'Oliver, sir, --Oliver
has--'
'What? What?' interposed Mr. Bumble: with a gleam of
pleasure in his metallic eyes. 'Not run away; he hasn't run away, has he, Noah?'
'No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he's turned wicious,'
replied Noah. 'He tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder
Charlotte; and then missis. Oh! what dreadful pain it is!
Such agony, please, sir!' And here, Noah writhed and
twisted his body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby giving
Mr. Bumble to understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver
Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from which he was at
that moment suffering the acutest torture.
When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated
perfectly paralysed Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto, by
bewailing his dreadful wounds ten times louder than before; and when he observed
a gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in his
lamentations than ever: rightly conceiving it highly expedient to attract the
notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid.
The gentleman's notice was very soon attracted; for he
had not walked three paces, when he turned angrily round, and inquired what that
young cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with something
which would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated, an
involuntary process?
'It's a poor boy from the free-school, sir,' replied Mr.
Bumble, 'who has been nearly murdered--all but murdered, sir, --by young Twist.'
'By Jove!' exclaimed the gentleman in the white
waistcoat, stopping short. 'I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the
very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!'
'He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female
servant,' said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness.
'And his missis,' interposed Mr. Claypole.
'And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?' added Mr.
Bumble.
'No! he's out, or he would have murdered him,' replied
Noah. 'He said he wanted to.'
'Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?' inquired the
gentleman in the white waistcoat.
'Yes, sir,' replied Noah. 'And please, sir, missis wants
to know whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog
him-- 'cause master's out.'
'Certainly, my boy; certainly,' said the gentleman in
the white waistcoat: smiling benignly, and patting Noah's head, which was about
three inches higher than his own. 'You're a good boy--a very good boy. Here's a
penny for you. Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry's with your cane, and seed
what's best to be done. Don't spare him, Bumble.'
'No, I will not, sir,' replied the beadle. And the
cocked hat and cane having been, by this time, adjusted to their owner's
satisfaction, Mr. Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to
the undertaker's shop.
Here the position of affairs had not at all improved.
Sowerberry had not yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick, with undiminished
vigour, at the cellar-door. The accounts of his ferocity as related by Mrs.
Sowerberry and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature, that Mr. Bumble judged
it prudent to parley, before opening the door. With this view he gave a kick at
the outside, by way of prelude; and, then, applying his mouth to the keyhole,
said, in a deep and impressive tone:
'Oliver!'
'Come; you let me out!' replied Oliver, from the inside.
'Do you know this here voice, Oliver?' said Mr. Bumble.
'Yes,' replied Oliver.
'Ain't you afraid of it, sir? Ain't you a-trembling
while I speak, sir?' said Mr. Bumble.
'No!' replied Oliver, boldly.
An answer so different from the one he had expected to
elicit, and was in the habit of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a little. He
stepped back from the keyhole; drew himself up to his full height; and looked
from one to another of the three bystanders, in mute astonishment.
'Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad,' said Mrs.
Sowerberry.
'No boy in half his senses could venture to speak so to
you.'
'It's not Madness, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble, after a
few moments of deep meditation. 'It's Meat.'
'What?' exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry.
'Meat, ma'am, meat,' replied Bumble, with stern
emphasis. 'You've over-fed him, ma'am. You've raised a artificial soul and
spirit in him, ma'am unbecoming a person of his condition: as the board, Mrs.
Sowerberry, who are practical philosophers, will tell you. What have paupers to
do with soul or spirit? It's quite enough that we let 'em have live bodies. If
you had kept the boy on gruel, ma'am, this would never have happened.'
'Dear, dear!' ejaculated Mrs. Sowerberry, piously
raising her eyes to the kitchen ceiling: 'this comes of being liberal!'
The liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver, had
consisted of a profuse bestowal upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which
nobody else would eat; so there was a great deal of meekness and self-devotion
in her voluntarily remaining under Mr. Bumble's heavy accusation. Of which, to
do her justice, she was wholly innocent, in thought, word, or deed.
'Ah!' said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes
down to earth again; 'the only thing that can be done now, that I know of, is to
leave him in the cellar for a day or so, till he's a little starved down; and
then to take him out, and keep him on gruel all through the apprenticeship. He
comes of a bad family. Excitable natures, Mrs. Sowerberry! Both the nurse and
doctor said, that that mother of his made her way here, against difficulties and
pain that would have killed any well-disposed woman, weeks before.'
At this point of Mr. Bumble's discourse, Oliver, just
hearing enough to know that some allusion was being made to his mother,
recommenced kicking, with a violence that rendered every other sound inaudible.
Sowerberry returned at this juncture. Oliver's offence having been explained to
him, with such exaggerations as the ladies thought best calculated to rouse his
ire, he unlocked the cellar-door in a twinkling, and dragged his rebellious
apprentice out, by the collar.
Oliver's clothes had been torn in the beating he had
received; his face was bruised and scratched; and his hair scattered over his
forehead. The angry flush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled
out of his prison, he scowled boldly on Noah, and looked quite undismayed.
'Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain't you?' said
Sowerberry; giving Oliver a shake, and a box on the ear.
'He called my mother names,' replied Oliver.
'Well, and what if he did, you little ungrateful
wretch?' said Mrs. Sowerberry. 'She deserved what he said, and worse.'
'She didn't' said Oliver.
'She did,' said Mrs. Sowerberry.
'It's a lie!' said Oliver.
Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears.
This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no alternative.
If he had hesitated for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be
quite clear to every experienced reader that he would have been, according to
all precedents in disputes of matrimony established, a brute, an unnatural
husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of a man, and various other
agreeable characters too numerous for recital within the limits of this chapter.
To do him justice, he was, as far as his power went--it was not very
extensive--kindly disposed towards the boy; perhaps, because it was his interest
to be so; perhaps, because his wife disliked him. The flood of tears, however,
left him no resource; so he at once gave him a drubbing, which satisfied even
Mrs. Sowerberry herself, and rendered Mr. Bumble's subsequent application of the
parochial cane, rather unnecessary. For the rest of the day, he was shut up in
the back kitchen, in company with a pump and a slice of bread; and at night,
Mrs. Sowerberry, after making various remarks outside the door, by no means
complimentary to the memory of his mother, looked into the room, and, amidst the
jeers and pointings of Noah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs to his dismal
bed.
It was not until he was left alone in the silence and
stillness of the gloomy workshop of the undertaker, that Oliver gave way to the
feelings which the day's treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a
mere child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt; he had
borne the lash without a cry: for he felt that pride swelling in his heart which
would have kept down a shriek to the last, though they had roasted him alive.
But now, when there were none to see or hear him, he fell upon his knees on the
floor; and, hiding his face in his hands, wept such tears as, God send for the
credit of our nature, few so young may ever have cause to pour out before him!
For a long time, Oliver remained motionless in this
attitude. The candle was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet.
Having gazed cautiously round him, and listened intently, he gently undid the
fastenings of the door, and looked abroad.
It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to the
boy's eyes, farther from the earth than he had ever seen them before; there was
no wind; and the sombre shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground, looked
sepulchral and death-like, from being so still. He softly reclosed the door.
Having availed himself of the expiring light of the candle to tie up in a
handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel he had, sat himself down upon a
bench, to wait for morning.
With the first ray of light that struggled through the
crevices in the shutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door. One timid
look around--one moment's pause of hesitation--he had closed it behind him, and
was in the open street.
He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain
whither to fly.
He remembered to have seen the waggons, as they went
out, toiling up the hill. He took the same route; and arriving at a footpath
across the fields: which he knew, after some distance, led out again into the
road; struck into it, and walked quickly on.
Along this same footpath, Oliver well-remembered he had
trotted beside Mr. Bumble, when he first carried him to the workhouse from the
farm. His way lay directly in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly when
he bethought himself of this; and he half resolved to turn back. He had come a
long way though, and should lose a great deal of time by doing so. Besides, it
was so early that there was very little fear of his being seen; so he walked on.
He reached the house. There was no appearance of its
inmates stirring at that early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden.
A child was weeding one of the little beds; as he stopped, he raised his pale
face and disclosed the features of one of his former companions. Oliver felt
glad to see him, before he went; for, though younger than himself, he had been
his little friend and playmate. They had been beaten, and starved, and shut up
together, many and many a time.
'Hush, Dick!' said Oliver, as the boy ran to the gate,
and thrust his thin arm between the rails to greet him. 'Is any one up?'
'Nobody but me,' replied the child.
'You musn't say you saw me, Dick,' said Oliver. 'I am
running away. They beat and ill-use me, Dick; and I am going to seek my fortune,
some long way off. I don't know where. How pale you are!'
'I heard the doctor tell them I was dying,' replied the
child with a faint smile. 'I am very glad to see you, dear; but don't stop,
don't stop!'
'Yes, yes, I will, to say good-b'ye to you,' replied
Oliver. 'I shall see you again, Dick. I know I shall! You will be well and
happy!'
'I hope so,' replied the child. 'After I am dead, but
not before. I know the doctor must be right, Oliver, because I dream so much of
Heaven, and Angels, and kind faces that I never see when I am awake. Kiss me,'
said the child, climbing up the low gate, and flinging his little arms round
Oliver's neck. 'Good-b'ye, dear! God bless you!'
The blessing was from a young child's lips, but it was
the first that Oliver had ever heard invoked upon his head; and through the
struggles and sufferings, and troubles and changes, of his after life, he never
once forgot it.