Oliver Twist 雾都孤儿 - Chapter 7

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 sobs¹ and an imposing² show of tears and terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket; and presented such a rueful face to the aged³ pauper⁴ who opened it, that even he, who saw nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of times, started back in astonishment⁵. 'Why, what's the matter with the boy!' said the old pauper. 'Mr. Bumble!

 

Mr. Bumble!' cried Noah, with well-affected dismay: and in tones so loud and agitated⁶, 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 remarkable⁷ circumstance: as showing that even a beadle, acted upon a sudden and powerful impulse, may be afflicted⁸ with a momentary⁹ 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 metallic¹⁰ 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 writhed¹¹ and twisted his body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby¹² giving Mr. Bumble to understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset¹³ 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 perfectly¹⁴ 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 tragic¹⁵ in his lamentations than ever: rightly conceiving it highly expedient¹⁶ 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 exclamations¹⁷ 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 presentiment¹⁸ from the very first, that that audacious young savage¹⁹ 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 benignly²⁰, 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 cane²¹, and see 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 vigour²², 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 prudent²³ to parley²⁴, before opening the door.

 

With this view he gave a kick at the outside, by way of prelude²⁵; 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 elicit²⁶, 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 meditation²⁷.

 

'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 paupers²⁸ to do with soul or spirit?

 

It's quite enough that we let 'em have live bodies.

 

If you had kept the boy on gruel²⁹, ma'am, this would never have happened.' 'Dear, dear!' ejaculated Mrs. Sowerberry, piously³⁰ raising her eyes to the kitchen ceiling: 'this comes of being liberal!' The liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver, had consisted of a profuse³¹ bestowal³² upon him of all the dirty odds³³ and ends which nobody else would eat; so there was a great deal of meekness³⁴ and self-devotion in her voluntarily remaining under Mr. Bumble's heavy accusation³⁵.

 

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 apprenticeship³⁷.

 

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 discourse³⁸, Oliver, just hearing enough to know that some allusion³⁹ was being made to his mother, recommenced kicking, with a violence that rendered every other sound inaudible.

 

Sowerberry returned at this juncture⁴⁰.

 

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 rebellious⁴¹ apprentice³⁶ out, by the collar. Oliver's clothes had been torn in the beating he had received; his face was bruised⁴² and scratched; and his hair scattered⁴³ over his forehead.

 

The angry flush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled out of his prison, he scowled⁴⁴ 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 wretch⁴⁵?' 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 severely⁴⁶, it must be quite clear to every experienced reader that he would have been, according to all precedents⁴⁷ in disputes of matrimony established, a brute⁴⁸, an unnatural⁴⁹ husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of a man, and various other agreeable characters too numerous for recital⁵⁰ 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 complimentary⁵¹ to the memory of his mother, looked into the room, and, amidst the jeers⁵² and pointings of Noah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs to his dismal⁵³ 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 awakened⁵⁴ in a mere⁵⁵ child.

 

He had listened to their taunts⁵⁶ with a look of contempt; he had borne the lash⁵⁷ without a cry: for he felt that pride swelling⁵⁸ in his heart which would have kept down a shriek⁵⁹ 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 socket⁶⁰ when he rose to his feet. Having gazed cautiously round him, and listened intently, he gently undid⁶¹ 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 sepulchral⁶² 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 crevices⁶³ in the shutters⁶⁴, 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 waggons⁶⁵, as they went out, toiling⁶⁶ up the hill.

 

He took the same route; and arriving at a footpath⁶⁷ 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 trotted⁶⁸ 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 inmates⁶⁹ 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. 'Hush⁷⁰, 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 blessing⁷¹ was from a young child's lips, but it was the first that Oliver had ever heard invoked⁷² upon his head; and through the struggles and sufferings, and troubles and changes, of his after life, he never once forgot it.

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