Chương Chương 6 · OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE TAUNTS OF NOAH, ROUSES INTO ACTION, AND

. 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 hat-band, 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 came 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.