Чарльз Диккенс
Oliver Twist. Volume 1 of 3
“Oh, my brother! my poor, dear, sweet, innocent little brother!” exclaimed Nancy, bursting into tears, and wringing the little basket and the street-door key in an agony of distress. “What has become of him! – where have they taken him to! Oh, do have pity, and tell me what’s been done with the dear boy, gentlemen; do, gentlemen, if you please, gentlemen.”
Having uttered these words in a most lamentable and heart-broken tone, to the immeasurable delight of her hearers, Miss Nancy paused, winked to the company, nodded smilingly round, and disappeared.
“Ah! she’s a clever girl, my dears,” said the Jew, turning round to his young friends, and shaking his head gravely, as if in mute admonition to them to follow the bright example they had just beheld.
“She’s a honour to her sex,” said Mr. Sikes, filling his glass, and smiting the table with his enormous fist. “Here’s her health, and wishing they was all like her!”
While these and many other encomiums were being passed on the accomplished Nancy, that young lady made the best of her way to the police-office; whither, notwithstanding a little natural timidity consequent upon walking through the streets alone and unprotected, she arrived in perfect safety shortly afterwards.
Entering by the back way, she tapped softly with the key at one of the cell-doors, and listened. There was no sound within, so she coughed and listened again. Still there was no reply, so she spoke.
“Nolly, dear?” murmured Nancy in a gentle voice; – “Nolly?”
There was nobody inside but a miserable shoeless criminal, who had been taken up for playing the flute, and who – the offence against society having been clearly proved – had been very properly committed by Mr. Fang to the House of Correction for one month, with the appropriate and amusing remark that since he had so much breath to spare, it would be much more wholesomely expended on the treadmill than in a musical instrument. He made no answer, being occupied in mentally bewailing the loss of the flute, which had been confiscated for the use of the county; so Nancy passed on to the next cell, and knocked there.
“Well,” cried a faint and feeble voice.
“Is there a little boy here?” inquired Nancy with a preliminary sob.
“No,” replied the voice; “God forbid!”
This was a vagrant of sixty-five, who was going to prison for not playing the flute, or, in other words, for begging in the streets, and doing nothing for his livelihood. In the next cell was another man, who was going to the same prison for hawking tin saucepans without a licence: thereby doing something for his living in defiance of the Stamp-office.
But, as neither of these criminals answered to the name of Oliver, or knew anything about him, Nancy made straight up to the bluff officer in the striped waistcoat, and with the most piteous wailings and lamentations, rendered more piteous by a prompt and efficient use of the street-door key and the little basket, demanded her own dear brother.
“I haven’t got him, my dear,” said the old man.
“Where is he?” screamed Nancy in a distracted manner.
“Why, the gentleman’s got him,” replied the officer.
“What gentleman? – Oh, gracious heavens! what gentleman?” exclaimed Nancy.
In reply to this incoherent questioning, the old man informed the deeply affected sister that Oliver had been taken ill in the office, and discharged in consequence of a witness having proved the robbery to have been committed by another boy not in custody; and that the prosecutor had carried him away in an insensible condition to his own residence, of and concerning which all the informant knew was, that it was somewhere at Pentonville; he having heard that word mentioned in the directions to the coachman.
In a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty the agonised young woman staggered to the gate, and then, – exchanging her faltering gait for a good swift steady run, returned by the most devious and complicated route she could think of, to the domicile of the Jew.
Mr. Bill Sikes no sooner heard the account of the expedition delivered, than he very hastily called up the white dog, and, putting on his hat, expeditiously departed, without devoting any time to the formality of wishing the company good-morning.
“We must know where he is, my dears; he must be found,” said the Jew, greatly excited. “Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him. Nancy, my dear, I must have him found: I trust to you, my dear, – to you and the Artful for everything. Stay, stay,” added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand; “there’s money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop to-night: you’ll know where to find me. Don’t stop here a minute, – not an instant, my dears!”
With these words he pushed them from the room, and carefully double-locking and barring the door behind them, drew from its place of concealment the box which he had unintentionally disclosed to Oliver, and hastily proceeded to dispose the watches and jewellery beneath his clothing.
A rap at the door startled him in this occupation. “Who’s there?” he cried in a shrill tone of alarm.
“Me!” replied the voice of the Dodger through the key-hole.
“What now?” cried the Jew impatiently.
“Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?” inquired the Dodger cautiously.
“Yes,” replied the Jew, “wherever she lays hands on him. Find him, find him out, that’s all. I shall know what to do next, never fear.”
The boy murmured a reply of intelligence, and hurried down stairs after his companions.
“He has not peached so far,” said the Jew as he pursued his occupation. “If he means to blab us among his new friends, we may stop his windpipe yet.”
CHAPTER XIV
COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER’S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW’S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND
Oliver soon recovered from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow’s abrupt exclamation had thrown him; and the subject of the picture was carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued, which indeed bore no reference to Oliver’s history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the housekeeper’s room next day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed.
“Ah!” said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver’s eyes. “It is gone, you see.”
“I see it is, ma’am,” replied Oliver, with a sigh. “Why have they taken it away?”
“It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that, as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know,” rejoined the old lady.
“Oh, no, indeed it didn’t worry me, ma’am,” said Oliver. “I liked to see it; I quite loved it.”
“Well, well!” said the old lady, good-humouredly; “you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There, I promise you that; now let us talk about something else.”
This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time, and as the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so listened attentively to a great many stories she told him about an amiable and handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome man, and lived in the country; and a son, who was clerk to a merchant in the West Indies, and who was also such a good young man, and wrote such dutiful letters home four times a year, that it brought the tears into her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had expatiated a long time on the excellences of her children, and the merits of her kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! just six-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea; and after tea she began to teach Oliver cribbage, which he learnt as quickly as she could teach, and at which game they played, with great interest and gravity, until it was time for the invalid to have some warm wine and water, with a slice of dry toast, and to go cosily to bed.
They were happy days those of Oliver’s recovery. Everything was so quiet, and neat, and orderly: everybody so kind and gentle, that after the noise and turbulence in the midst of which he had always lived, it seemed like heaven itself. He was no sooner strong enough to put his clothes on properly, than Mr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and a new cap, and a new pair of shoes, to be provided for him. As Oliver was told that he might do what he liked with the old clothes, he gave them to a servant who had been very kind to him, and asked her to sell them to a Jew, and keep the money for herself. This she very readily did; and, as Oliver looked out of the parlour window, and saw the Jew roll them up in his bag and walk away, he felt quite delighted to think that they were safely gone, and that there was now no possible danger of his ever being able to wear them again. They were sad rags, to tell the truth; and Oliver had never had a new suit before.
One evening, about a week after the affair of the picture, as he was sitting talking to Mrs. Bedwin, there came a message down from Mr. Brownlow, that if Oliver Twist felt pretty well, he should like to see him in his study, and talk to him a little while.
“Bless us, and save us! wash your hands, and let me part your hair nicely for you, child,” said Mrs. Bedwin. “Dear heart alive! if we had known he would have asked for you, we would have put you a clean collar on, and made you as smart as sixpence.”
Oliver did as the old lady bade him, and, although she lamented grievously meanwhile that there was not even time to crimp the little frill that bordered his shirt-collar, he looked so delicate and handsome, despite that important personal advantage, that she went so far as to say, looking at him with great complacency from head to foot, that she really didn’t think it would have been possible on the longest notice to have made much difference in him for the better.
Thus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the study door, and, on Mr. Brownlow calling to him to come in, found himself in a little back room quite full of books, with a window looking into some pleasant little gardens. There was a table drawn up before the window, at which Mr. Brownlow was seated reading. When he saw Oliver, he pushed the book away from him, and told him to come near the table and sit down. Oliver complied, marvelling where the people could be found to read such a great number of books as seemed to be written to make the world wiser, – which is still a marvel to more experienced people than Oliver Twist every day of their lives.
“There are a good many books, are there not, my boy?” said Mr. Brownlow, observing the curiosity with which Oliver surveyed the shelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling.
“A great number, sir,” replied Oliver; “I never saw so many.”
“You shall read them if you behave well,” said the old gentleman kindly; “and you will like that, better than looking at the outsides, – that is, in some cases, because there are books of which the backs and covers are by far the best parts.”
“I suppose they are those heavy ones, sir,” said Oliver, pointing to some large quartos with a good deal of gilding about the binding.
“Not always those,” said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head, and smiling as he did so; “there are other equally heavy ones, though of a much smaller size. How should you like to grow up a clever man, and write books, eh?”
“I think I would rather read them, sir,” replied Oliver.
“What! wouldn’t you like to be a book-writer?” said the old gentleman.
Oliver considered a little while, and at last said he should think it would be a much better thing to be a bookseller; upon which the old gentleman laughed heartily, and declared he had said a very good thing, which Oliver felt glad to have done, though he by no means knew what it was.
“Well, well,” said the old gentleman, composing his features, “don’t be afraid; we won’t make an author of you, while there’s an honest trade to be learnt, or brick-making to turn to.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Oliver; and at the earnest manner of his reply the old gentleman laughed again, and said something about a curious instinct, which Oliver, not understanding, paid no very great attention to.
“Now,” said Mr. Brownlow, speaking if possible in a kinder, but at the same time in a much more serious manner than Oliver had ever heard him speak in yet, “I want you to pay great attention, my boy, to what I am going to say. I shall talk to you without any reserve, because I am sure you are as well able to understand me as many older persons would be.”
“Oh, don’t tell me you are going to send me away, sir, pray!” exclaimed Oliver, alarmed by the serious tone of the old gentleman’s commencement! “don’t turn me out of doors to wander in the streets again. Let me stay here and be a servant. Don’t send me back to the wretched place I came from. Have mercy upon a poor boy, sir; do?”
“My dear child,” said the old gentleman, moved by the warmth of Oliver’s sudden appeal, “you need not be afraid of my deserting you, unless you give me cause.”
“I never, never will, sir,” interposed Oliver.
“I hope not,” rejoined the old gentleman; “I do not think you ever will. I have been deceived before, in the objects whom I have endeavoured to benefit; but I feel strongly disposed to trust you, nevertheless, and more interested in your behalf than I can well account for, even to myself. The persons on whom I have bestowed my dearest love lie deep in their graves; but, although the happiness and delight of my life lie buried there too, I have not made a coffin of my heart, and sealed it up for ever on my best affections. Deep affliction has only made them stronger; it ought, I think, for it should refine our nature.”
As the old gentleman said this in a low voice, more to himself than to his companion, and remained silent for a short time afterwards, Oliver sat quite still, almost afraid to breathe.
“Well, well,” said the old gentleman at length in a more cheerful tone, “I only say this, because you have a young heart, and knowing that I have suffered great pain and sorrow, you will be more careful, perhaps, not to wound me again. You say you are an orphan, without a friend in the world; all the inquiries I have been able to make confirm the statement. Let me hear your story; where you came from, who brought you up, and how you got into the company in which I found you. Speak the truth; and if I find you have committed no crime, you will never be friendless while I live.”
Oliver’s sobs checked his utterance for some minutes; and when he was on the point of beginning to relate how he had been brought up at the farm, and carried to the workhouse by Mr. Bumble, a peculiarly impatient little double-knock was heard at the street-door, and the servant, running up stairs, announced Mr. Grimwig.
“Is he coming up?” inquired Mr. Brownlow.
“Yes, sir,” replied the servant. “He asked if there were any muffins in the house, and, when I told him yes, he said he had come to tea.”
Mr. Brownlow smiled, and, turning to Oliver, said Mr. Grimwig was an old friend of his, and he must not mind his being a little rough in his manners, for he was a worthy creature at bottom, as he had reason to know.
“Shall I go down stairs, sir?” inquired Oliver.
“No,” replied Mr. Brownlow; “I would rather you stopped here.”
At this moment there walked into the room, supporting himself by a thick stick, a stout old gentleman, rather lame in one leg, who was dressed in a blue coat, striped waistcoat, nankeen breeches and gaiters, and a broad-brimmed white hat, with the sides turned up with green. A very small-plaited shirt-frill stuck out from his waistcoat, and a very long steel watch-chain, with nothing but a key at the end, dangled loosely below it. The ends of his white neckerchief were twisted into a ball about the size of an orange; – the variety of shapes into which his countenance was twisted defy description. He had a manner of screwing his head round on one side when he spoke, and looking out of the corners of his eyes at the same time, which irresistibly reminded the beholder of a parrot. In this attitude he fixed himself the moment he made his appearance; and, holding out a small piece of orange-peel at arm’s length, exclaimed in a growling, discontented voice,
“Look here! do you see this? Isn’t it a most wonderful and extraordinary thing that I can’t call at a man’s house but I find a piece of this poor-surgeon’s-friend on the staircase? I’ve been lamed with orange-peel once, and I know orange-peel will be my death at last. It will, sir; orange-peel will be my death, or I’ll be content to eat my own head, sir!” This was the handsome offer with which Mr. Grimwig backed and confirmed nearly every assertion he made: and it was the more singular in his case, because, even admitting, for the sake of argument, the possibility of scientific improvements being ever brought to that pass which will enable a gentleman to eat his own head in the event of his being so disposed, Mr. Grimwig’s head was such a particularly large one, that the most sanguine man alive could hardly entertain a hope of being able to get through it at a sitting – to put entirely out of the question a very thick coating of powder.
“I’ll eat my head, sir,” repeated Mr. Grimwig, striking his stick upon the ground. “Hallo! what’s that?” he added, looking at Oliver, and retreating a pace or two.
“This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking about,” said Mr. Brownlow.
Oliver bowed.
“You don’t mean to say that’s the boy that had the fever, I hope?” said Mr. Grimwig, recoiling a little further. “Wait a minute, don’t speak: stop – ” continued Mr. Grimwig abruptly, losing all dread of the fever in his triumph at the discovery; “that’s the boy that had the orange! If that’s not the boy, sir, that had the orange, and threw this bit of peel upon the staircase, I’ll eat my head and his too.”
“No, no, he has not had one,” said Mr. Brownlow, laughing. “Come, put down your hat, and speak to my young friend.”
“I feel strongly on this subject, sir,” said the irritable old gentleman, drawing off his gloves. “There’s always more or less orange-peel on the pavement in our street, and I know it’s put there by the surgeon’s boy at the corner. A young woman stumbled over a bit last night, and fell against my garden-railings; directly she got up I saw her look towards his infernal red lamp with the pantomime-light. ‘Don’t go to him,’ I called out of the window, ‘he’s an assassin, – a man-trap!’ So he is. If he is not – ” Here the irascible old gentleman gave a great knock on the ground with his stick, which as always understood by his friends to imply the customary offer whenever it was not expressed in words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand, he sat down, and, opening a double eye-glass which he wore attached to a broad black riband, took a view of Oliver, who, seeing that he was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again.
“That’s the boy, is it?” said Mr. Grimwig, at length.
“That is the boy,” replied Mr. Brownlow, nodding good-humouredly to Oliver.
“How are you, boy?” said Mr. Grimwig.
“A great deal better, thank you, sir,” replied Oliver.
Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about to say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step down stairs and tell Mrs. Bedwin they were ready for tea, which, as he did not half like the visitor’s manner, he was very happy to do.
“He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?” inquired Mr. Brownlow.
“I don’t know,” replied Grimwig, pettishly.
“Don’t know?”
“No, I don’t know. I never see any difference in boys. I only know two sorts of boys, – mealy boys, and beef-faced boys.”
“And which is Oliver!”
“Mealy. I know a friend who’s got a beef-faced boy; a fine boy they call him, with a round head, and red cheeks, and glaring eyes; a horrid boy, with a body and limbs that appear to be swelling out of the seams of his blue clothes – with the voice of a pilot, and the appetite of a wolf. I know him, the wretch!”
“Come,” said Mr. Brownlow, “these are not the characteristics of young Oliver Twist; so he needn’t excite your wrath.”
“They are not,” replied Grimwig. “He may have worse.”
Here Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently, which appeared to afford Mr. Grimwig the most exquisite delight.
“He may have worse, I say,” repeated Mr. Grimwig. “Where does he come from? Who is he? What is he? He has had a fever – what of that? Fevers are not peculiar to good people, are they? Bad people have fevers sometimes, haven’t they, eh? I knew a man that was hung in Jamaica for murdering his master; he had had a fever six times; he wasn’t recommended to mercy on that account. Pooh! nonsense!”
Now, the fact was, that, in the inmost recesses of his own heart, Mr. Grimwig was strongly disposed to admit that Oliver’s appearance and manner were unusually prepossessing, but he had a strong appetite for contradiction, sharpened on this occasion by the finding of the orange-peel; and inwardly determining that no man should dictate to him whether a boy was well-looking or not, he had resolved from the first to oppose his friend. When Mr. Brownlow admitted that on no one point of inquiry could he yet return a satisfactory answer, and that he had postponed any investigation into Oliver’s previous history until he thought the boy was strong enough to bear it, Mr. Grimwig chuckled maliciously, and demanded, with a sneer, whether the housekeeper was in the habit of counting the plate at night; because, if she didn’t find a table-spoon or two missing some sunshiny morning, why, he would be content to – , et cetera.
All this, Mr. Brownlow, although himself somewhat of an impetuous gentleman, knowing his friend’s peculiarities, bore with great good humour; as Mr. Grimwig, at tea, was graciously pleased to express his entire approval of the muffins, matters went on very smoothly; and Oliver, who made one of the party, began to feel more at his ease than he had yet done in the fierce old gentleman’s presence.
“And when are you going to hear a full, true, and particular account of the life and adventures of Oliver Twist?” asked Grimwig of Mr. Brownlow, at the conclusion of the meal: looking sideways at Oliver as he resumed the subject.
“To-morrow morning,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “I would rather he was alone with me at the time. Come up to me to-morrow morning at ten o’clock, my dear.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver. He answered with some hesitation, because he was confused by Mr. Grimwig’s looking so hard at him.
“I’ll tell you what,” whispered that gentleman to Mr. Brownlow; “he won’t come up to you to-morrow morning. I saw him hesitate. He is deceiving you, my dear friend.”
“I’ll swear he is not,” replied Mr. Brownlow, warmly.
“If he is not,” said Mr. Grimwig, “I’ll – ” and down went the stick.
“I’ll answer for that boy’s truth with my life,” said Mr. Brownlow, knocking the table.
“And I for his falsehood with my head,” rejoined Mr. Grimwig, knocking the table also.
“We shall see,” said Mr. Brownlow, checking his rising passion.
“We will,” replied Mr. Grimwig, with a provoking smile; “we will.”
As fate would have it, Mrs. Bedwin chanced to bring in at this moment a small parcel of books which Mr. Brownlow had that morning purchased of the identical bookstall-keeper who has already figured in this history; which having laid on the table, she prepared to leave the room.
“Stop the boy, Mrs. Bedwin,” said Mr. Brownlow; “there is something to go back.”
“He has gone, sir,” replied Mrs. Bedwin.
“Call after him,” said Mr. Brownlow; “it’s particular. He is a poor man, and they are not paid for. There are some books to be taken back, too.”
The street-door was opened. Oliver ran one way, and the girl another, and Mrs. Bedwin stood on the step and screamed for the boy; but there was no boy in sight, and both Oliver and the girl returned in a breathless state to report that there were no tidings of him.
“Dear me, I am very sorry for that,” exclaimed Mr. Brownlow; “I particularly wished those books to be returned to-night.”
“Send Oliver with them,” said Mr. Grimwig with an ironical smile; “he will be sure to deliver them safely, you know.”
“Yes; do let me take them, if you please, sir,” said Oliver; “I’ll run all the way, sir.”
The old gentleman was just going to say that Oliver should not go out on any account, when a most malicious cough from Mr. Grimwig determined him that he should, and by his prompt discharge of the commission prove to him the injustice of his suspicions, on this head at least, at once.
“You shall go, my dear,” said the old gentleman. “The books are on a chair by my table. Fetch them down.”
Oliver, delighted to be of use, brought down the books under his arm in a great bustle, and waited, cap in hand, to hear what message he was to take.
“You are to say,” said Mr. Brownlow, glancing steadily at Grimwig, – “you are to say that you have brought those books back, and that you have come to pay the four pound ten I owe him. This is a five-pound note, so you will have to bring me back ten shillings change.”
“I won’t be ten minutes, sir,” replied Oliver, eagerly; and, having buttoned up the bank-note in his jacket pocket, and placed the books carefully under his arm, he made a respectful bow, and left the room. Mrs. Bedwin followed him to the street-door, giving him many directions about the nearest way, and the name of the bookseller, and the name of the street, all of which Oliver said he clearly understood; and, having superadded many injunctions to be sure and not take cold, the careful old lady at length permitted him to depart.
“Bless his sweet face!” said the old lady, looking after him. “I can’t bear, somehow, to let him go out of my sight.”
At this moment, Oliver looked gaily round, and nodded before he turned the corner. The old lady smilingly returned his salutation, and, closing the door, went back to her own room.
“Let me see; he’ll be back in twenty minutes, at the longest,” said Mr. Brownlow, pulling out his watch, and placing it on the table. “It will be dark by that time.”
“Oh! you really expect him to come back, do you?” inquired Mr. Grimwig.
“Don’t you?” asked Mr. Brownlow, smiling.
The spirit of contradiction was strong in Mr. Grimwig’s breast at the moment, and it was rendered stronger by his friend’s confident smile.
“No,” he said, smiting the table with his fist, “I do not. The boy has a new suit of clothes on his back, a set of valuable books under his arm, and a five-pound note in his pocket; he’ll join his old friends the thieves, and laugh at you. If ever that boy returns to this house, sir, I’ll eat my head.”
With these words he drew his chair closer to the table, and there the two friends sat in silent expectation, with the watch between them. It is worthy of remark, as illustrating the importance we attach to our own judgments, and the pride with which we put forth our most rash and hasty conclusions, that, although Mr. Grimwig was not by any means a bad-hearted man, and would have been unfeignedly sorry to see his respected friend duped and deceived, he really did most earnestly and strongly hope at that moment that Oliver Twist might not come back. Of such contradictions is human nature made up!
It grew so dark that the figures on the dial were scarcely discernible; but there the two old gentlemen continued to sit in silence, with the watch between them.
