Chapter VI

Oliver Twist

by Charles Dickens

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 hatband, 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 come 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.