第 二十三 章 · WHICH CONTAINS THE SUBSTANCE OF A PLEASANT CONVERSATION BETWEEN MR. BUMBLE AND A LADY; AND SHOWS THAT EVEN A BEADLE MAY

. WHICH CONTAINS THE SUBSTANCE OF A PLEASANT CONVERSATION BETWEEN MR. BUMBLE AND A LADY; AND SHOWS THAT EVEN A BEADLE MAY

WHICH CONTAINS THE SUBSTANCE OF A PLEASANT CONVERSATION BETWEEN MR.

BUMBLE AND A LADY; AND SHOWS THAT EVEN A BEADLE MAY BE SUSCEPTIBLE ON

SOME POINTS

The night was bitter cold. The snow lay on the ground, frozen into a

hard thick crust, so that only the heaps that had drifted into byways

and corners were affected by the sharp wind that howled abroad: which,

as if expending increased fury on such prey as it found, caught it

savagely up in clouds, and, whirling it into a thousand misty eddies,

scattered it in air. Bleak, dark, and piercing cold, it was a night for

the well-housed and fed to draw round the bright fire and thank God

they were at home; and for the homeless, starving wretch to lay him

down and die. Many hunger-worn outcasts close their eyes in our bare

streets, at such times, who, let their crimes have been what they may,

can hardly open them in a more bitter world.

Such was the aspect of out-of-doors affairs, when Mrs. Corney, the

matron of the workhouse to which our readers have been already

introduced as the birthplace of Oliver Twist, sat herself down before a

cheerful fire in her own little room, and glanced, with no small degree

of complacency, at a small round table: on which stood a tray of

corresponding size, furnished with all necessary materials for the most

grateful meal that matrons enjoy. In fact, Mrs. Corney was about to

solace herself with a cup of tea. As she glanced from the table to the

fireplace, where the smallest of all possible kettles was singing a

small song in a small voice, her inward satisfaction evidently

increased,—so much so, indeed, that Mrs. Corney smiled.

“Well!” said the matron, leaning her elbow on the table, and looking

reflectively at the fire; “I’m sure we have all on us a great deal to

be grateful for! A great deal, if we did but know it. Ah!”

Mrs. Corney shook her head mournfully, as if deploring the mental

blindness of those paupers who did not know it; and thrusting a silver

spoon (private property) into the inmost recesses of a two-ounce tin

tea-caddy, proceeded to make the tea.

How slight a thing will disturb the equanimity of our frail minds! The

black teapot, being very small and easily filled, ran over while Mrs.

Corney was moralising; and the water slightly scalded Mrs. Corney’s

hand.

“Drat the pot!” said the worthy matron, setting it down very hastily on

the hob; “a little stupid thing, that only holds a couple of cups! What

use is it of, to anybody! Except,” said Mrs. Corney, pausing, “except

to a poor desolate creature like me. Oh dear!”

With these words, the matron dropped into her chair, and, once more

resting her elbow on the table, thought of her solitary fate. The small

teapot, and the single cup, had awakened in her mind sad recollections

of Mr. Corney (who had not been dead more than five-and-twenty years);

and she was overpowered.

“I shall never get another!” said Mrs. Corney, pettishly; “I shall

never get another—like him.”

Whether this remark bore reference to the husband, or the teapot, is

uncertain. It might have been the latter; for Mrs. Corney looked at it

as she spoke; and took it up afterwards. She had just tasted her first

cup, when she was disturbed by a soft tap at the room-door.

“Oh, come in with you!” said Mrs. Corney, sharply. “Some of the old

women dying, I suppose. They always die when I’m at meals. Don’t stand

there, letting the cold air in, don’t. What’s amiss now, eh?”

“Nothing, ma’am, nothing,” replied a man’s voice.

“Dear me!” exclaimed the matron, in a much sweeter tone, “is that Mr.

Bumble?”

“At your service, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, who had been stopping

outside to rub his shoes clean, and to shake the snow off his coat; and

who now made his appearance, bearing the cocked hat in one hand and a

bundle in the other. “Shall I shut the door, ma’am?”

The lady modestly hesitated to reply, lest there should be any

impropriety in holding an interview with Mr. Bumble, with closed doors.

Mr. Bumble taking advantage of the hesitation, and being very cold

himself, shut it without permission.

“Hard weather, Mr. Bumble,” said the matron.

“Hard, indeed, ma’am,” replied the beadle. “Anti-porochial weather

this, ma’am. We have given away, Mrs. Corney, we have given away a

matter of twenty quartern loaves and a cheese and a half, this very

blessed afternoon; and yet them paupers are not contented.”

“Of course not. When would they be, Mr. Bumble?” said the matron,

sipping her tea.

“When, indeed, ma’am!” rejoined Mr. Bumble. “Why here’s one man that,

in consideration of his wife and large family, has a quartern loaf and

a good pound of cheese, full weight. Is he grateful, ma’am? Is he

grateful? Not a copper farthing’s worth of it! What does he do, ma’am,

but ask for a few coals; if it’s only a pocket handkerchief full, he

says! Coals! What would he do with coals? Toast his cheese with ’em and

then come back for more. That’s the way with these people, ma’am; give

’em a apron full of coals today, and they’ll come back for another,

the day after tomorrow, as brazen as alabaster.”

The matron expressed her entire concurrence in this intelligible

simile; and the beadle went on.

“I never,” said Mr. Bumble, “see anything like the pitch it’s got to.

The day afore yesterday, a man—you have been a married woman, ma’am,

and I may mention it to you—a man, with hardly a rag upon his back

(here Mrs. Corney looked at the floor), goes to our overseer’s door

when he has got company coming to dinner; and says, he must be

relieved, Mrs. Corney. As he wouldn’t go away, and shocked the company

very much, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and half a

pint of oatmeal. ‘My heart!’ says the ungrateful villain, ‘what’s the

use of _this_ to me? You might as well give me a pair of iron

spectacles!’ ‘Very good,’ says our overseer, taking ’em away again,

‘you won’t get anything else here.’ ‘Then I’ll die in the streets!’

says the vagrant. ‘Oh no, you won’t,’ says our overseer.”

“Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn’t it?”

interposed the matron. “Well, Mr. Bumble?”

“Well, ma’am,” rejoined the beadle, “he went away; and he _did_ die in

the streets. There’s a obstinate pauper for you!”

“It beats anything I could have believed,” observed the matron

emphatically. “But don’t you think out-of-door relief a very bad thing,

any way, Mr. Bumble? You’re a gentleman of experience, and ought to

know. Come.”

“Mrs. Corney,” said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are conscious

of superior information, “out-of-door relief, properly managed:

properly managed, ma’am: is the porochial safeguard. The great

principle of out-of-door relief is, to give the paupers exactly what

they don’t want; and then they get tired of coming.”

“Dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Corney. “Well, that is a good one, too!”

“Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma’am,” returned Mr. Bumble, “that’s the

great principle; and that’s the reason why, if you look at any cases

that get into them owdacious newspapers, you’ll always observe that

sick families have been relieved with slices of cheese. That’s the rule

now, Mrs. Corney, all over the country. But, however,” said the beadle,

stopping to unpack his bundle, “these are official secrets, ma’am; not

to be spoken of; except, as I may say, among the porochial officers,

such as ourselves. This is the port wine, ma’am, that the board ordered

for the infirmary; real, fresh, genuine port wine; only out of the cask

this forenoon; clear as a bell, and no sediment!”

Having held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken it well to

test its excellence, Mr. Bumble placed them both on top of a chest of

drawers; folded the handkerchief in which they had been wrapped; put it

carefully in his pocket; and took up his hat, as if to go.

“You’ll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble,” said the matron.

“It blows, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat-collar,

“enough to cut one’s ears off.”

The matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle, who was

moving towards the door; and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to

bidding her good-night, bashfully inquired whether—whether he wouldn’t

take a cup of tea?

Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again; laid his hat

and stick upon a chair; and drew another chair up to the table. As he

slowly seated himself, he looked at the lady. She fixed her eyes upon

the little teapot. Mr. Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled.

Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet. As she

sat down, her eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle;

she coloured, and applied herself to the task of making his tea. Again

Mr. Bumble coughed—louder this time than he had coughed yet.

“Sweet? Mr. Bumble?” inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin.

“Very sweet, indeed, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on

Mrs. Corney as he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr.

Bumble was that beadle at that moment.

The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread a

handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the

splendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these

amusements, occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had

no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather

seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department.

“You have a cat, ma’am, I see,” said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who,

in the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; “and kittens

too, I declare!”

“I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can’t think,” replied the

matron. “They’re _so_ happy, _so_ frolicsome, and _so_ cheerful, that

they are quite companions for me.”

“Very nice animals, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; “so very

domestic.”

“Oh, yes!” rejoined the matron with enthusiasm; “so fond of their home

too, that it’s quite a pleasure, I’m sure.”

“Mrs. Corney, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time

with his teaspoon, “I mean to say this, ma’am; that any cat, or kitten,

that could live with you, ma’am, and _not_ be fond of its home, must be

a ass, ma’am.”

“Oh, Mr. Bumble!” remonstrated Mrs. Corney.

“It’s of no use disguising facts, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, slowly

flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him

doubly impressive; “I would drown it myself, with pleasure.”

“Then you’re a cruel man,” said the matron vivaciously, as she held out

her hand for the beadle’s cup; “and a very hard-hearted man besides.”

“Hard-hearted, ma’am?” said Mr. Bumble. “Hard?” Mr. Bumble resigned his

cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney’s little finger as she

took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat,

gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther

from the fire.

It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been

sitting opposite each other, with no great space between them, and

fronting the fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from

the fire, and still keeping at the table, increased the distance

between himself and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding, some prudent readers

will doubtless be disposed to admire, and to consider an act of great

heroism on Mr. Bumble’s part: he being in some sort tempted by time,

place, and opportunity, to give utterance to certain soft nothings,

which however well they may become the lips of the light and

thoughtless, do seem immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of the

land, members of parliament, ministers of state, lord mayors, and other

great public functionaries, but more particularly beneath the

stateliness and gravity of a beadle: who (as is well known) should be

the sternest and most inflexible among them all.

Whatever were Mr. Bumble’s intentions, however (and no doubt they were

of the best): it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before

remarked, that the table was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble,

moving his chair by little and little, soon began to diminish the

distance between himself and the matron; and, continuing to travel

round the outer edge of the circle, brought his chair, in time, close

to that in which the matron was seated.

Indeed, the two chairs touched; and when they did so, Mr. Bumble

stopped.

Now, if the matron had moved her chair to the right, she would have

been scorched by the fire; and if to the left, she must have fallen

into Mr. Bumble’s arms; so (being a discreet matron, and no doubt

foreseeing these consequences at a glance) she remained where she was,

and handed Mr. Bumble another cup of tea.

“Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?” said Mr. Bumble, stirring his tea, and

looking up into the matron’s face; “are _you_ hard-hearted, Mrs.

Corney?”

“Dear me!” exclaimed the matron, “what a very curious question from a

single man. What can you want to know for, Mr. Bumble?”

The beadle drank his tea to the last drop; finished a piece of toast;

whisked the crumbs off his knees; wiped his lips; and deliberately

kissed the matron.

“Mr. Bumble!” cried that discreet lady in a whisper; for the fright was

so great, that she had quite lost her voice, “Mr. Bumble, I shall

scream!” Mr. Bumble made no reply; but in a slow and dignified manner,

put his arm round the matron’s waist.

As the lady had stated her intention of screaming, of course she would

have screamed at this additional boldness, but that the exertion was

rendered unnecessary by a hasty knocking at the door: which was no

sooner heard, than Mr. Bumble darted, with much agility, to the wine

bottles, and began dusting them with great violence: while the matron

sharply demanded who was there.

It is worthy of remark, as a curious physical instance of the efficacy

of a sudden surprise in counteracting the effects of extreme fear, that

her voice had quite recovered all its official asperity.

“If you please, mistress,” said a withered old female pauper, hideously

ugly: putting her head in at the door, “Old Sally is a-going fast.”

“Well, what’s that to me?” angrily demanded the matron. “I can’t keep

her alive, can I?”

“No, no, mistress,” replied the old woman, “nobody can; she’s far

beyond the reach of help. I’ve seen a many people die; little babes and

great strong men; and I know when death’s a-coming, well enough. But

she’s troubled in her mind: and when the fits are not on her,—and

that’s not often, for she is dying very hard,—she says she has got

something to tell, which you must hear. She’ll never die quiet till you

come, mistress.”

At this intelligence, the worthy Mrs. Corney muttered a variety of

invectives against old women who couldn’t even die without purposely

annoying their betters; and, muffling herself in a thick shawl which

she hastily caught up, briefly requested Mr. Bumble to stay till she

came back, lest anything particular should occur. Bidding the messenger

walk fast, and not be all night hobbling up the stairs, she followed

her from the room with a very ill grace, scolding all the way.

Mr. Bumble’s conduct on being left to himself, was rather inexplicable.

He opened the closet, counted the teaspoons, weighed the sugar-tongs,

closely inspected a silver milk-pot to ascertain that it was of the

genuine metal, and, having satisfied his curiosity on these points, put

on his cocked hat corner-wise, and danced with much gravity four

distinct times round the table.

Having gone through this very extraordinary performance, he took off

the cocked hat again, and, spreading himself before the fire with his

back towards it, seemed to be mentally engaged in taking an exact

inventory of the furniture.