Oliver Twist, by Charles Dickens (1837-39) - Chapter 6
CHAPTER VI
OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE TAUNTS OF NOAH, ROUSES INTO ACTION, AND RATHER ASTONISHES HIM
The month's trial over, Oliver was formally apprenticed.
It was a nice sickly season just at this time. In commercial phrase, coffins
were looking up; and, in the course of a few weeks, Oliver acquired a great deal
of experience. The success of Mr. Sowerberry's ingenious speculation, exceeded
even his most sanguine hopes. The oldest inhabitants recollected no period at
which measles had been so prevalent, or so fatal to infant existence; and many
were the mournful processions which little Oliver headed, in a hat-band reaching
down to his knees, to the indescribable admiration and emotion of all the
mothers in the town. As Oliver accompanied his master in most of his adult
expeditions too, in order that he might acquire that equanimity of demeanour and
full command of nerve which was essential to a finished undertaker, he had many
opportunities of observing the beautiful resignation and fortitude with which
some strong-minded people bear their trials and losses.
For instance; when Sowerberry had an order for the
burial of some rich old lady or gentleman, who was surrounded by a great number
of nephews and nieces, who had been perfectly inconsolable during the previous
illness, and whose grief had been wholly irrepressible even on the most public
occasions, they would be as happy among themselves as need be--quite cheerful
and contented--conversing together with as much freedom and gaiety, as if
nothing whatever had happened to disturb them. Husbands, too, bore the loss of
their wives with the most heroic calmness. Wives, again, put on weeds for their
husbands, as if, so far from grieving in the garb of sorrow, they had made up
their minds to render it as becoming and attractive as possible. It was
observable, too, that ladies and gentlemen who were in passions of anguish
during the ceremony of interment, recovered almost as soon as they reached home,
and became quite composed before the tea-drinking was over. All this was very
pleasant and improving to see; and Oliver beheld it with great admiration.
That Oliver Twist was moved to resignation by the
example of these good people, I cannot, although I am his biographer, undertake
to affirm with any degree of confidence; but I can most distinctly say, that for
many months he continued meekly to submit to the domination and ill-treatment of
Noah Claypole: who used him far worse than before, now that his jealousy was
roused by seeing the new boy promoted to the black stick and hatband, while he,
the old one, remained stationary in the muffin-cap and leathers. Charlotte
treated him ill, because Noah did; and Mrs. Sowerberry was his decided enemy,
because Mr. Sowerberry was disposed to be his friend; so, between these three on
one side, and a glut of funerals on the other, Oliver was not altogether as
comfortable as the hungry pig was, when he was shut up, by mistake, in the grain
department of a brewery.
And now, I come to a very important passage in Oliver's
history; for I have to record an act, slight and unimportant perhaps in
appearance, but which indirectly produced a material change in all his future
prospects and proceedings.
One day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen
at the usual dinner-hour, to banquet upon a small joint of mutton--a pound and a
half of the worst end of the neck--when Charlotte being called out of the way,
there ensued a brief interval of time, which Noah Claypole, being hungry and
vicious, considered he could not possibly devote to a worthier purpose than
aggravating and tantalising young Oliver Twist.
Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet
on the table-cloth; and pulled Oliver's hair; and twitched his ears; and
expressed his opinion that he was a 'sneak'; and furthermore announced his
intention of coming to see him hanged, whenever that desirable event should take
place; and entered upon various topics of petty annoyance, like a malicious and
ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was. But, making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to
be more facetious still; and in his attempt, did what many sometimes do to this
day, when they want to be funny. He got rather personal.
'Work'us,' said Noah, 'how's your mother?'
'She's dead,' replied Oliver; 'don't you say anything
about her to me!'
Oliver's colour rose as he said this; he breathed
quickly; and there was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr.
Claypole thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying.
Under this impression he returned to the charge.
'What did she die of, Work'us?' said Noah.
'Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me,'
replied Oliver: more as if he were talking to himself, than answering Noah. 'I
think I know what it must be to die of that!'
'Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work'us,' said
Noah, as a tear rolled down Oliver's cheek. 'What's set you a snivelling now?'
'Not YOU,' replied Oliver, sharply. 'There; that's
enough. Don't say anything more to me about her; you'd better not!'
'Better not!' exclaimed Noah. 'Well! Better not!
Work'us, don't be impudent. YOUR mother, too! She was a nice 'un she was. Oh,
Lor!' And here, Noah nodded his head expressively; and curled up as much of his
small red nose as muscular action could collect together, for the occasion.
'Yer know, Work'us,' continued Noah, emboldened by
Oliver's silence, and speaking in a jeering tone of affected pity: of all tones
the most annoying: 'Yer know, Work'us, it can't be helped now; and of course yer
couldn't help it then; and I am very sorry for it; and I'm sure we all are, and
pity yer very much. But yer must know, Work'us, yer mother was a regular
right-down bad 'un.'
'What did you say?' inquired Oliver, looking up very
quickly.
'A regular right-down bad 'un, Work'us,' replied Noah,
coolly. 'And it's a great deal better, Work'us, that she died when she did, or
else she'd have been hard labouring in Bridewell, or transported, or hung; which
is more likely than either, isn't it?'
Crimson with fury, Oliver started up; overthrew the
chair and table; seized Noah by the throat; shook him, in the violence of his
rage, till his teeth chattered in his head; and collecting his whole force into
one heavy blow, felled him to the ground.
A minute ago, the boy had looked the quiet child, mild,
dejected creature that harsh treatment had made him. But his spirit was roused
at last; the cruel insult to his dead mother had set his blood on fire. His
breast heaved; his attitude was erect; his eye bright and vivid; his whole
person changed, as he stood glaring over the cowardly tormentor who now lay
crouching at his feet; and defied him with an energy he had never known before.
'He'll murder me!' blubbered Noah. 'Charlotte! missis!
Here's the new boy a murdering of me! Help! help! Oliver's gone mad!
Char--lotte!'
Noah's shouts were responded to, by a loud scream from
Charlotte, and a louder from Mrs. Sowerberry; the former of whom rushed into the
kitchen by a side-door, while the latter paused on the staircase till she was
quite certain that it was consistent with the preservation of human life, to
come further down.
'Oh, you little wretch!' screamed Charlotte: seizing
Oliver with her utmost force, which was about equal to that of a moderately
strong man in particularly good training. 'Oh, you little un-grate-ful,
mur-de-rous, hor-rid villain!' And between every syllable, Charlotte gave Oliver
a blow with all her might: accompanying it with a scream, for the benefit of
society.
Charlotte's fist was by no means a light one; but, lest
it should not be effectual in calming Oliver's wrath, Mrs. Sowerberry plunged
into the kitchen, and assisted to hold him with one hand, while she scratched
his face with the other. In this favourable position of affairs, Noah rose from
the ground, and pommelled him behind.
This was rather too violent exercise to last long. When
they were all wearied out, and could tear and beat no longer, they dragged
Oliver, struggling and shouting, but nothing daunted, into the dust-cellar, and
there locked him up. This being done, Mrs. Sowerberry sunk into a chair, and
burst into tears.
'Bless her, she's going off!' said Charlotte. 'A glass
of water, Noah, dear. Make haste!'
'Oh! Charlotte,' said Mrs. Sowerberry: speaking as well
as she could, through a deficiency of breath, and a sufficiency of cold water,
which Noah had poured over her head and shoulders. 'Oh! Charlotte, what a mercy
we have not all been murdered in our beds!'
'Ah! mercy indeed, ma'am,' was the reply. I only hope
this'll teach master not to have any more of these dreadful creatures, that are
born to be murderers and robbers from their very cradle.
Poor Noah! He was all but killed, ma'am, when I come
in.'
'Poor fellow!' said Mrs. Sowerberry: looking piteously
on the charity-boy.
Noah, whose top waistcoat-button might have been
somewhere on a level with the crown of Oliver's head, rubbed his eyes with the
inside of his wrists while this commiseration was bestowed upon him, and
performed some affecting tears and sniffs.
'What's to be done!' exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. 'Your
master's not at home; there's not a man in the house, and he'll kick that door
down in ten minutes.' Oliver's vigorous plunges against the bit of timber in
question, rendered this occurance highly probable.
'Dear, dear! I don't know, ma'am,' said Charlotte,
'unless we send for the police-officers.'
'Or the millingtary,' suggested Mr. Claypole.
'No, no,' said Mrs. Sowerberry: bethinking herself of
Oliver's old friend. 'Run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here
directly, and not to lose a minute; never mind your cap! Make haste! You can
hold a knife to that black eye, as you run along.
It'll keep the swelling down.'
Noah stopped to make no reply, but started off at his
fullest speed; and very much it astonished the people who were out walking, to
see a charity-boy tearing through the streets pell-mell, with no cap on his
head, and a clasp-knife at his eye.