The Story of Oliver Twist
I. OLIVER BEGINS LIFE IN A HARD WAY
Some years ago when the poorhouses of England were in a bad state and the poor people housed within them were often ill-treated, a little waif began his life under the roof of one of the worst of them. His mother had wandered there, weak, wretched and without friends, it seemed, for she gave no clue to her identity; and after her little boy was born she had only strength enough to kiss him once before she breathed her last. As no one knew anything about her, the child became a charge upon the parish. He was sent with other orphans and homeless little ones to be cared for by an elderly woman named Mrs. Mann, who received from the parish officers but a scant allowance for the needs of the children, to whom she gave, in the shape of food and attention, a still shorter return.
And so the first years of this child’s life were devoted mainly to the struggle to keep body and soul together. He won the fight by the narrowest of margins, and his ninth birthday found him a pale, thin lad, somewhat short in stature and decidedly small in girth. But nature had placed a good sturdy spirit in his breast. It had plenty of room to expand, thanks to the spare diet, else he might not have had any ninth birthday at all.
On this momentous day he received a visitor, in the person of Mr. Bumble, the fat and pompous beadle of the workhouse, who came to see Mrs. Mann in all the glory of his cocked hat and brass buttons.
“Good morning, ma’am,” said the beadle, taking out a leathern pocket-book. “The child that was half baptized Oliver Twist is nine year old to-day.”
“Bless him!” interposed Mrs. Mann, inflaming her left eye with the corner of her apron.
“And notwithstanding a offered reward of ten pound, which was afterwards increased to twenty pound; notwithstanding the most superlative, and, I may say, supernat’ral exertions on the part of this parish,” said Bumble, “we have never been able to discover who is his father, or what was his mother’s settlement, name, or con-dition.”
Mrs. Mann raised her hands in astonishment; but added, after a moment’s reflection, “How comes he to have any name at all, then?”
The beadle drew himself up with great pride, and said, “I inwented it.”
“You, Mr. Bumble!”
“I, Mrs. Mann. We name our foundlings in alphabetical order. The last was a S,—Swubble, I named him. This was a T,—Twist I named him. The next one as comes will be Unwin, and the next Vilkins. I have got names ready made to the end of the alphabet, 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 the compliment; “perhaps I may be. But the boy Oliver being now too old to remain here, the Board have determined to have him back into the house. I have come out myself to take him there. So let me see him at once.”
“I’ll fetch him directly,” said Mrs. Mann, leaving the room for that purpose. And so Oliver, having had as much of the outer coat of dirt which encrusted his face and hands removed as could be scrubbed off in one washing, was presently led into the room.
“Make a bow to the gentleman, Oliver,” said Mrs. Mann.
Oliver made a bow, which was divided between the beadle on the chair and the cocked hat on the table.
“Will you go along with me, Oliver?” said Mr. Bumble, in a majestic voice.
Oliver was about to say that he would go along with anybody with great readiness, when, glancing upwards, he caught sight of Mrs. Mann, who had got behind the beadle’s chair, and was shaking her fist 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 be deeply impressed upon his memory.
“Will she go with me?” he inquired.
“No, she can’t,” replied Mr. Bumble, “but she’ll come and see you sometimes.”
This was no very great consolation to the child. Young as he was, however, he had sense enough to pretend great regret at going away. It was no very difficult matter for the boy to call the tears into his eyes. Hunger and recent ill-usage are great assistants if you want to cry; and Oliver cried very naturally indeed. Mrs. Mann gave him a thousand embraces, and, what Oliver wanted a great deal more, a piece of bread and butter, lest he should seem too hungry when he got to the workhouse. With the slice of bread in his hand, and the little brown-cloth parish cap on his head, the boy was then led away by Mr. Bumble from the wretched home where one kind word or look had never lighted the gloom of his infant years.
Mr. Bumble walked on with long strides, and little Oliver, firmly grasping his gold-laced cuff, trotted beside him; inquiring at the end of every quarter of a mile whether they were “nearly there.” To these interrogations Mr. Bumble returned very brief and snappish replies; for was he not a beadle? But at last they were there, and the boy was looking at his new home with interest not unmixed with dread.
Oliver had not been within the walls of the workhouse a quarter of an hour, and had scarcely completed the slice of bread, when Mr. Bumble, who had handed him over to the care of an old woman, returned, and, telling him it was a board night, took him before that august body forthwith.
“Bow to the Board,” said Bumble. Oliver brushed away two or three tears that were lingering in his eyes, and seeing no board but the table, fortunately bowed to that.
“What’s your name, boy?” said a gentleman in a high chair.
Oliver was frightened at the sight of so many fat, red-faced gentlemen, and the beadle gave him another tap behind, which made him cry. These two causes made him answer in a very low and hesitating voice; whereupon a gentleman in a white waistcoat said he was a fool,—which was a capital way of raising his spirits and putting him quite at his ease.
“Boy,” said the gentleman in the high chair, “listen to me. You know you’re an orphan, I suppose?”
“What’s that, sir?” inquired poor Oliver.
“The boy is a fool—I thought he was,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
“Hush!” said the gentleman who had spoken first. “You know you’ve got no father or mother, and that you were brought up by the parish, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver, weeping bitterly.
“What are you crying for?” inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. And, to be sure, it was very extraordinary. What could the boy be crying for?
“I hope you say your prayers every night,” said another gentleman, in a gruff voice, “and pray for the people who feed you, and take care of you—like a Christian.”
“Yes, sir,” stammered the boy. The gentleman who spoke last was unconsciously right. It would have been very like a Christian, and a marvellously good Christian too, if Oliver had prayed for the people who fed and took care of him. But he hadn’t, because nobody had taught him.
“Well! You have come here to be educated, and taught a useful trade,” said the red-faced gentleman in the high chair.
“So you’ll begin to pick oakum to-morrow morning at six o’clock,” added the surly one in the white waistcoat.
For the combination of both these blessings in the one simple process of picking oakum, Oliver bowed low, by the direction of the beadle, and was hurried away to a large ward, where, on a rough hard bed, he sobbed himself to sleep.
Poor Oliver! He little knew, as he fell asleep, that the Board had just reached a sage decision in his and other cases. But they had, and this was it. The members of this Board were very wise men, and when they came to turn their attention to the work-house, they found out at once, what ordinary folks would never have discovered—that the poor people liked it!
“Oho!” said the Board, “we’ll stop all this high living in no time!” So they brought the diet down to the edge of starvation. They contracted with the waterworks to lay on an unlimited supply of water, and with a mill to supply small quantities of oatmeal; and issued three meals of thin gruel a day, and half a roll on Sundays.
For the first six months after Oliver Twist was removed, the system was in full operation. It was rather expensive at first, in consequence of the increase in the undertaker’s bill, and the necessity of taking in the clothes of all the paupers, which fluttered loosely on their wasted, shrunken forms, after a week or two’s gruel. But the number of workhouse inmates got thin as well as the paupers, and the Board were delighted.
The room in which the boys were fed was a large stone hall, with a copper kettle at one end, out of which the master, dressed in an apron for the purpose, and assisted by one or two women, ladled the gruel at meal times. Of this festive composition each boy had one porringer, and no more—except on occasions of great public rejoicing, when he had two ounces and a quarter of bread besides. The bowls never wanted washing. The boys polished them with their spoons till they shone again; and when they had performed this operation (which never took very long, the spoons being nearly as large as the bowls), they would sit staring at the kettle, with eager eyes, as if they could have devoured the very bricks of which it was composed; employing themselves, meanwhile, in sucking their fingers, with the view of catching up any stray splashes of gruel that might have been cast thereon.
Boys have generally excellent appetites. Oliver Twist and his companions suffered the tortures of slow starvation for three months, until at last they got so voracious and wild with hunger that one boy, who was tall for his age and hadn’t been used to that sort of thing (for his father had kept a small cook’s shop), hinted darkly to his companions that unless he had another basin of gruel, he was afraid he might eat the boy who slept next him, who happened to be a weakly youth of tender age. He had a wild hungry eye, and they implicitly believed him. A council was held, and lots were cast to decide who should walk up to the master after supper that evening and ask for more; and it fell to Oliver Twist.
The evening arrived, and the boys took their places. The master, in his cook’s uniform, stationed himself at the kettle; his pauper assistants ranged themselves behind him; the gruel was served out, and a long grace was said over the short rations. The gruel disappeared; the boys whispered to each other, and winked at Oliver, while his next neighbors nudged him. Child as he was, he was desperate with hunger and reckless with misery. He rose from the table and advancing to the master, basin and spoon in hand, said, somewhat alarmed at his own temerity:
“Please, sir, I want some more.”
The master was a fat, healthy man, but he turned very pale. He gazed in stupefied astonishment on the small rebel for some seconds, and then clung for support to the copper. The assistants were paralyzed with wonder; the boys with fear.
“What!” said the master at length, in a faint voice.
“Please, sir,” replied Oliver, “I want some more.”
The master aimed a blow at Oliver’s head with the ladle, pinioned him in his arms, and shrieked aloud for the beadle.
The Board were sitting in solemn conclave, when Mr. Bumble rushed into the room in great excitement, and, addressing the gentleman in the high chair, said:
“Mr. Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir! Oliver Twist has asked for more!”
There was a general start. Horror was depicted on every countenance.
“For more!” said Mr. Limbkins. “Compose yourself, Bumble, and answer me distinctly. Do I understand that he asked for more, after he had eaten the supper allotted by the dietary?”
“He did, sir,” replied Bumble.
“That boy will be hung,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. “I know that boy will be hung.”
Nobody disputed this opinion. An animated discussion took place. Oliver was ordered into instant confinement; and a bill was posted on the outside of the gate, offering a reward of five pounds to anybody who would take Oliver Twist off the hands of the parish. In other words, five pounds and Oliver Twist were offered to any man or woman who wanted an apprentice to any trade, business, or calling.
Oliver had a very narrow escape a few days later, as the result of this bill, from a villanous-looking man who wanted a chimney-sweep. But finally he became the apprentice of an undertaker named Sowerberry. His life here was some improvement over the workhouse, but still hard enough. Nevertheless he did get enough to eat, in the shape of broken victuals, and he slept among the coffins in the shop.
Unfortunately there was another apprentice, a great overgrown fellow named Noah Claypole, who delighted to bully Oliver in every way possible. Oliver stood it as long as he could, but Noah mistook his attitude for cowardice and added insults to rough usage. But, one day, Noah spoke ill of the boy’s dead mother.
“What did you say?” asked Oliver quickly.
“A regular right-down bad ’un, she was, Work’us,” repeated Noah coolly.
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, mild, dejected creature that harsh treatment had made him. But his spirit was roused at last; the cruel insult had set his blood on fire. His breast heaved, and he defied his tormentor 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!”
His cries brought the fat maid-servant running to the scene.
“Oh, you little wretch!” screamed Charlotte, seizing Oliver with her utmost force, which was about equal to that of a strong man in good training. “Oh, you little un-grate-ful, mur-der-ous, 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 favorable 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 three 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 sank into a chair and burst into tears.
“Oh, Charlotte!” she cried; “what a mercy we have not all been murdered in our beds, with such a little villain in the house!”
And when Mr. Sowerberry presently came home, he gave Oliver a whipping on his own account for good measure.
It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the cellar that Oliver gave way to the feelings which the day’s treatment had awakened. 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 was none to see or hear him, he fell upon his knees on the floor, and, hiding his face in his hands, wept bitter tears.
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 re-closed the door. He resolved to run away in the early morning—to go to that great city of London.
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 wagons, as they went out, toiling up the hill. He took the same route, and arriving at a footpath across the fields, which he knew led out again into the road, struck into it and walked quickly on.
He was then only ten years old.