Oliver Twist

Charles Dickens

• Publisher: Youcanprint
• Year: 2017
• ISBN:
  9788892672628
• Topic: Literatur
• Subtopic: Altertumswissenschaften

Oliver Twist, or The Parish Boy's Progress, is the second novel by English author Charles Dickens and was first published as a serial 1837–39. The story is of the orphan Oliver Twist, who starts his life in a workhouse and is then sold into apprenticeship with an undertaker. He escapes from there and travels to London, where he meets the Artful Dodger, a member of a gang of juvenile pickpockets led by the elderly criminal, Fagin. Oliver Twist was born into a life of poverty and misfortune in a workhouse in an unnamed town (although when originally published in Bentley's Miscellany in 1837, the town was called Mudfog and said to be within 70 miles north of London – in reality, this is the location of the town of Northampton). Orphaned by his mother's death in childbirth and his father's unexplained absence, Oliver is meagerly provided for under the terms of the Poor Law and spends the first nine years of his life living at a baby farm in the 'care' of a woman named Mrs. Mann. Oliver is brought up with little food and few comforts. Around the time of Oliver's ninth birthday, Mr. Bumble, the parish beadle, removes Oliver from the baby farm and puts him to work picking and weaving oakum at the main workhouse. Oliver, who toils with very little food, remains in the workhouse for six months. One day, the desperately hungry boys decide to draw lots; the loser must ask for another portion of gruel. The task falls to Oliver, who at the next meal tremblingly comes up forward, bowl in hand, and begs Mr. Bumble for gruel with his famous request: "Please, sir, I want some more".

CHAPTER I - TREATS OF THE PLACE WHERE OLIVER TWIST WAS BORN AND OF THE CIRCUMSTANCES ATTENDING HIS BIRTH

Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will assign no fictitious name, there is one anciently common to most towns, great or small: to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was born; on a day and date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business at all events; the item of mortality whose name is prefixed to the head of this chapter.

For a long time after it was ushered into this world of sorrow and trouble, by the parish surgeon, it remained a matter of considerable doubt whether the child would survive to bear any name at all; in which case it is somewhat more than probable that these memoirs would never have appeared; or, if they had, that being comprised within a couple of pages, they would have possessed the inestimable merit of being the most concise and faithful specimen of biography, extant in the literature of any age or country.

Although I am not disposed to maintain that the being born in a workhouse, is in itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance that can possibly befall a human being, I do mean to say that in this particular instance, it was the best thing for Oliver Twist that could by possibility have occurred. The fact is, that there was considerable difficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon himself the office of respiration,—a troublesome practice, but one which custom has rendered necessary to our easy existence; and for some time he lay gasping on a little flock mattress, rather unequally poised between this world and the next: the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter. Now, if, during this brief period, Oliver had been surrounded by careful grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and doctors of profound wisdom, he would most inevitably and indubitably have been killed in no time. There being nobody by, however, but a pauper old woman, who was rendered rather misty by an unwonted allowance of beer; and a parish surgeon who did such matters by contract; Oliver and Nature fought out the point between them. The result was, that, after a few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to advertise to the inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden having been imposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as could reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not been possessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longer space of time than three minutes and a quarter.

As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his lungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron bedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly from the pillow; and a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words, 'Let me see the child, and die.'

The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed's head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected of him:

'Oh, you must not talk about dying yet.'

'Lor bless her dear heart, no!' interposed the nurse, hastily depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction.

'Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had thirteen children of her own, and all on 'em dead except two, and them in the wurkus with me, she'll know better than to take on in that way, bless her dear heart! Think what it is to be a mother, there's a dear young lamb do.'

Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother's prospects failed in producing its due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretched out her hand towards the child.

The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed wildly round; shuddered; fell back—and died. They chafed her breast, hands, and temples; but the blood had stopped forever. They talked of hope and comfort. They had been strangers too long.

'It's all over, Mrs. Thingummy!' said the surgeon at last.

'Ah, poor dear, so it is!' said the nurse, picking up the cork of the green bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to take up the child. 'Poor dear!'

'You needn't mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse,' said the surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. 'It's very likely it will be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is.' He put on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the door, added, 'She was a good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?'

'She was brought here last night,' replied the old woman, 'by the overseer's order. She was found lying in the street. She had walked some distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she came from, or where she was going to, nobody knows.'

The surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left hand. 'The old story,' he said, shaking his head: 'no wedding-ring, I see. Ah! Good-night!'

The medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and the nurse, having once more applied herself to the green bottle, sat down on a low chair before the fire, and proceeded to dress the infant.

What an excellent example of the power of dress, young Oliver Twist was! Wrapped in the blanket which had hitherto formed his only covering, he might have been the child of a nobleman or a beggar; it would have been hard for the haughtiest stranger to have assigned him his proper station in society. But now that he was enveloped in the old calico robes which had grown yellow in the same service, he was badged and ticketed, and fell into his place at once—a parish child—the orphan of a workhouse—the humble, half-starved drudge—to be cuffed and buffeted through the world—despised by all, and pitied by none.

Oliver cried lustily. If he could have known that he was an orphan, left to the tender mercies of church-wardens and overseers, perhaps he would have cried the louder.

CHAPTER II - TREATS OF OLIVER TWIST'S GROWTH, EDUCATION, AND BOARD

For the next eight or ten months, Oliver was the victim of asystematic course of treachery and deception. He was brought up byhand. The hungry and destitute situation of the infant orphan wasduly reported by the workhouse authorities to the parishauthorities. The parish authorities inquired with dignity of theworkhouse authorities, whether there was no female then domiciledin 'the house' who was in a situation to impart to Oliver Twist,the consolation and nourishment of which he stood in need. Theworkhouse authorities replied with humility, that there was not.Upon this, the parish authorities magnanimously and humanelyresolved, that Oliver should be 'farmed,' or, in other words, thathe should be dispatched to a branch-workhouse some three miles off,where twenty or thirty other juvenile offenders against thepoor-laws, rolled about the floor all day, without theinconvenience of too much food or too much clothing, under theparental superintendence of an elderly female, who received theculprits at and for the consideration of sevenpence-halfpenny persmall head per week. Sevenpence-halfpenny's worth per week is agood round diet for a child; a great deal may be got forsevenpence-halfpenny, quite enough to overload its stomach, andmake it uncomfortable. The elderly female was a woman of wisdom andexperience; she knew what was good for children; and she had a veryaccurate perception of what was good for herself. So, sheappropriated the greater part of the weekly stipend to her own use,and consigned the rising parochial generation to even ashorterallowance than was originally provided for them. Therebyfinding in the lowest depth a deeper still; and proving herself avery great experimental philosopher.

Everybody knows the story of another experimental philosopherwho had a great theory about a horse being able to live withouteating, and who demonstrated it so well, that he had got his ownhorse down to a straw a day, and would unquestionably have renderedhim a very spirited and rampacious animal on nothing at all, if hehad not died, four-and-twenty hours before he was to have had hisfirst comfortable bait of air. Unfortunately for, the experimentalphilosophy of the female to whose protecting care Oliver Twist wasdelivered over, a similar result usually attended the operation ofher system; for at the very moment when the child had contrived toexist upon the smallest possible portion of the weakest possiblefood, it did perversely happen in eight and a half cases out often, either that it sickened from want and cold, or fell into thefire from neglect, or got half-smothered by accident; in any one ofwhich cases, the miserable little being was usually summoned intoanother world, and there gathered to the fathers it had never knownin this.

Occasionally, when there was some more than usually interestinginquest upon a parish child who had been overlooked in turning up abedstead, or inadvertently scalded to death when there happened tobe a washing—though the latter accident was very scarce,anything approaching to a washing being of rare occurrence in thefarm—the jury would take it into their heads to asktroublesome questions, or the parishioners would rebelliously affixtheir signatures to a remonstrance. But these impertinences werespeedily checked by the evidence of the surgeon, and the testimonyof the beadle; the former of whom had always opened the body andfound nothing inside (which was very probable indeed), and thelatter of whom invariably swore whatever the parish wanted; whichwas very self-devotional. Besides, the board made periodicalpilgrimages to the farm, and always sent the beadle the day before,to say they were going. The children were neat and clean to behold,when they went; and what more would the people have!

It cannot be expected that this system of farming would produceany very extraordinary or luxuriant crop. Oliver Twist's ninthbirthday found him a pale thin child, somewhat diminutive instature, and decidedly small in circumference. But nature orinheritance had implanted a good sturdy spirit in Oliver's breast.It had had plenty of room to expand, thanks to the spare diet ofthe establishment; and perhaps to this circumstance may beattributed his having any ninth birth-day at all. Be this as itmay, however, it was his ninth birthday; and he was keeping it inthe coal-cellar with a select party of two other young gentleman,who, after participating with him in a sound thrashing, had beenlocked up for atrociously presuming to be hungry, when Mrs. Mann,the good lady of the house, was unexpectedly startled by theapparition of Mr. Bumble, the beadle, striving to undo the wicketof the garden-gate.

'Goodness gracious! Is that you, Mr. Bumble, sir?' said Mrs.Mann, thrusting her head out of the window in well-affectedecstasies of joy. '(Susan, take Oliver and them two brats upstairs,and wash 'em directly.)—My heart alive! Mr. Bumble, how gladI am to see you, sure-ly!'

Now, Mr. Bumble was a fat man, and a choleric; so, instead ofresponding to this open-hearted salutation in a kindred spirit, hegave the little wicket a tremendous shake, and then bestowed uponit a kick which could have emanated from no leg but a beadle's.

'Lor, only think,' said Mrs. Mann, running out,—for thethree boys had been removed by this time,—'only think ofthat! That I should have forgotten that the gate was bolted on theinside, on account of them dear children! Walk in sir; walk in,pray, Mr. Bumble, do, sir.'

Although this invitation was accompanied with a curtsey thatmight have softened the heart of a church-warden, it by no meansmollified the beadle.

'Do you think this respectful or proper conduct, Mrs. Mann,'inquired Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane, 'to keep the parishofficers a waiting at your garden-gate, when they come here uponporochial business with the porochial orphans? Are you aweer, Mrs.Mann, that you are, as I may say, a porochial delegate, and astipendiary?'

'I'm sure Mr. Bumble, that I was only a telling one or two ofthe dear children as is so fond of you, that it was you a coming,'replied Mrs. Mann with great humility.

Mr. Bumble had a great idea of his oratorical powers and hisimportance. He had displayed the one, and vindicated the other. Herelaxed.

'Well, well, Mrs. Mann,' he replied in a calmer tone; 'it may beas you say; it may be. Lead the way in, Mrs. Mann, for I come onbusiness, and have something to say.'

Mrs. Mann ushered the beadle into a small parlour with a brickfloor; placed a seat for him; and officiously deposited his cockedhat and cane on the table before him. Mr. Bumble wiped from hisforehead the perspiration which his walk had engendered, glancedcomplacently at the cocked hat, and smiled. Yes, he smiled. Beadlesare but men: and Mr. Bumble smiled.

'Now don't you be offended at what I'm a going to say,' observedMrs. Mann, with captivating sweetness. 'You've had a long walk, youknow, or I wouldn't mention it. Now, will you take a little drop ofsomethink, Mr. Bumble?'

'Not a drop. Nor a drop,' said Mr. Bumble, waving his right handin a dignified, but placid manner.

'I think you will,' said Mrs. Mann, who had noticed the tone ofthe refusal, and the gesture that had accompanied it. 'Just aleetle drop, with a little cold water, and a lump of sugar.'

Mr. Bumble coughed.

'Now, just a leetle drop,' said Mrs. Mann persuasively.

'What is it?' inquired the beadle.

'Why, it's what I'm obliged to keep a little of in the house, toput into the blessed infants' Daffy, when they ain't well, Mr.Bumble,' replied Mrs. Mann as she opened a corner cupboard, andtook down a bottle and glass. 'It's gin. I'll not deceive you, Mr.B. It's gin.'

'Do you give the children Daffy, Mrs. Mann?' inquired Bumble,following with his eyes the interesting process of mixing.

'Ah, bless 'em, that I do, dear as it is,' replied the nurse. 'Icouldn't see 'em suffer before my very eyes, you know sir.'

'No'; said Mr. Bumble approvingly; 'no, you could not. You are ahumane woman, Mrs. Mann.' (Here she set down the glass.) 'I shalltake a early opportunity of mentioning it to the board, Mrs. Mann.'(He drew it towards him.) 'You feel as a mother, Mrs. Mann.' (Hestirred the gin-and-water.) 'I—I drink your health withcheerfulness, Mrs. Mann'; and he swallowed half of it.

'And now about business,' said the beadle, taking out a leathernpocket-book. 'The child that was half-baptized Oliver Twist, isnine year old to-day.'

'Bless him!' interposed Mrs. Mann, inflaming her left eye withthe corner of her apron.

'And notwithstanding a offered reward of ten pound, which wasafterwards increased to twenty pound. Notwithstanding the mostsuperlative, and, I may say, supernat'ral exertions on the part ofthis parish,' said Bumble, 'we have never been able to discover whois his father, or what was his mother's settlement, name, orcondition.'

Mrs. Mann raised her hands in astonishment; but added, after amoment's reflection, 'How comes he to have any name at all,then?'

The beadle drew himself up with great pride, and said, 'Iinwented it.'

'You, Mr. Bumble!'

'I, Mrs. Mann. We name our fondlings in alphabetical order. Thelast was a S,—Swubble, I named him. This was aT,—Twist, I named him. The next one comes will be Unwin, andthe next Vilkins. I have got names ready made to the end of thealphabet, and all the way through it again, when we come to Z.'

'Why, you're quite a literary character, sir!' said Mrs.Mann.

'Well, well,' said the beadle, evidently gratified with thecompliment; 'perhaps I may be. Perhaps I may be, Mrs. Mann.' Hefinished the gin-and-water, and added, 'Oliver being now too old toremain here, the board have determined to have him back into thehouse. I have come out myself to take him there. So let me see himat once.'

'I'll fetch him directly,' said Mrs. Mann, leaving the room forthat purpose. Oliver, having had by this time as much of the outercoat of dirt which encrusted his face and hands, removed, as couldbe scrubbed off in one washing, was led into the room by hisbenevolent protectress.

'Make a bow to the gentleman, Oliver,' said Mrs. Mann.

Oliver made a bow, which was divided between the beadle on thechair, and the cocked hat on the table.

'Will you go along with me, Oliver?' said Mr. Bumble, in amajestic voice.

Oliver was about to say that he would go along with anybody withgreat readiness, when, glancing upward, he caught sight of Mrs.Mann, who had got behind the beadle's chair, and was shaking herfist at him with a furious countenance. He took the hint at once,for the fist had been too often impressed upon his body not to bedeeply impressed upon his recollection.

'Will she go with me?' inquired poor Oliver.

'No, she can't,' replied Mr. Bumble. 'But she'll come and seeyou sometimes.'

This was no very great consolation to the child. Young as hewas, however, he had sense enough to make a feint of feeling greatregret at going away. It was no very difficult matter for the boyto call tears into his eyes. Hunger and recent ill-usage are greatassistants if you want to cry; and Oliver cried very naturallyindeed. Mrs...