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Oliver Twist

OR THE PARISH BOY’S PROGRESS

by Charles Dickens

I TREATS OF THE PLACE WHERE OLIVER TWIST WAS BORN AND OF THE CIRCUMSTANCES ATTENDING HIS BIRTH

Among those lean, hungry dogs of which I have heard the parish boys describe a certain winter, there was, in the year one thousand seven hundred and thirty, a workhouse—a preparatory place of destination for all poor children who knew neither how to walk or talk, nor to express their wants in any very intelligible manner; and to this establishment Oliver Twist was brought; by the matron, in a state of considerable agitation.

It was a damp and dreary night. The rain fell in torrents—not with that cheerful, refreshing sound, which, in summer, lulls the weary labourer to sleep, but with a harsh, rattling, and chilling sound, that seemed to penetrate to the very bones of the unfortunates who were housed within. The wind howled a dismal tune, that echoed the despairing cries of the infant within.

The room in which Oliver first drew breath was a pauper’s ward. It was a long, low room, with a couple of small, grated windows, looking out upon a muddy yard. The walls were stained with damp, and the ceiling drooped, as if exhausted by the weight of the misery it had so long sustained.

In the centre of the room, on a straw pallet, lay his mother, a young woman, apparently not more than nineteen, whose face was already pale and wasted with the terrible struggle she had just endured. Her eyes were closed, and her breath came in faint, irregular gasps.

By her side stood the matron, a woman whose features, even in their present state of excitement, bespoke a habitual disregard of anything but her own comfort. She was large and bony, with a perpetually sour expression, as if she had been continually chewing a dead rat.

“It is a boy, ma’am,” said the beadle, a short, puffy man, holding a candle aloft, so that its feeble light fell upon the infant’s face.

“A boy, is it?” grunted the matron, without looking at the child. “Well, send for the beadle to register the birth. And be quick about it, for I have got my own supper to think of, and this weather chills the very marrow in one’s bones.”

The beadle shuffled out, muttering something about the lateness of the hour and the necessity of getting home before the watchman began his rounds.

The matron, left alone with the dying mother and the newly born child, evinced not the slightest symptom of sympathy. She merely smoothed the poor woman’s hair with a coarse hand.

“There, there, all over now,” she said, in a hard, unfeeling tone. “It’s better for you, and better for the parish. Less trouble, you see. Now, let’s see what we can do for the boy.”

She wrapped the infant, still screaming with the chill of the night, in a piece of coarse sacking, and carried him to a small cradle near the fire, where a few ashes smouldered faintly.

“What name shall we give him?” she asked the unconscious mother, though she knew no answer could be returned. “Oliver, we’ll call him. Oliver Twist, because he was turned into the workhouse on a wet Tuesday, and we’ve got no other name ready.”

The young mother gave one last sigh, a sound so faint it was almost lost in the rattle of the wind, and then lay still.

The matron looked at the body, then at the child, and shrugged. “Another mouth to feed,” she said, turning back to the fire. “Well, the parish will see to that. They always do.”

Oliver Twist began his life in the world under circumstances of neglect and misery. His birth was registered by the beadle, who entered the particulars with a grudging air, and noted the name decided upon by the matron, adding, in his own private ledger, a significant observation: “Mother ran away, I suppose. Another burden for the parish.”

The next morning, the scene was altered but little. The mother of Oliver Twist lay cold upon the straw pallet, while the infant, having been duly supplied with a meager portion of gruel, slept in the cradle, apparently unconscious of the great change that had taken place in his earthly prospects.

The workhouse itself was a grim edifice, situated at the outskirts of the town, a desolate spot surrounded by high walls, from which the brickwork seemed to have absorbed the gloom of years. It was a place where hope seldom entered and where charity was dispensed with the reluctant hand of a creditor demanding his due.

Oliver, as he grew, was to learn the rigid economy of the establishment. The dietary scale was famously insufficient, and the general system tended towards the swift reduction of any superfluous energy or spirit in its juvenile inmates.

II TREATS OF OLIVER TWIST’S GROWTH, EDUCATION, AND BOARD

For the first nine years of his life, Oliver Twist knew no other world than the smoky confines of the workhouse. He was a pale, small, and remarkably delicate-looking child. He was never a stout boy; at nine years old he looked more like a child of six.

His education was supervised by Mr. Bumble, the beadle, whose duties included the oversight of the children’s moral instruction, a task he performed by reading occasionally from a dusty and ill-thumbed book of moral maxims, in a voice loud enough to prevent any serious introspection on the part of the listeners.

The children were kept in a state of perpetual hunger. Their meals consisted of three thin bowls of watery gruel a day, with an occasional variation of a small piece of bread on Sundays.

It was upon the occasion of the boys growing perceptibly thinner that the governors of the workhouse held a meeting to discuss the alarming rate of consumption against the available stores.

“This boy,” said Mr. Bumble, pointing a stubby finger at Oliver, who was standing miserably by, “is a prime example of the evil tendency of over-feeding. He is consuming more gruel than is good for him, which is why he is still so thin.”

The master of the workhouse, a stout and red-faced man named Mr. Sowerberry, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Indeed, Mr. Bumble. It is quite extraordinary. We must curb this appetite, or we shall be bankrupt.”

It was determined, after much deliberation, that the boys should be allowed one portion of gruel less than they had been receiving, and that one boy should be selected by lot to ask for more. The lot fell upon Oliver Twist.

The next day, under the pallid light of a winter morning, Oliver was summoned before the board. He approached the massive table where the gentlemen sat, his little hands clasped before him, his eyes fixed upon the floor.

“Please, sir,” he said, in a voice so quiet it was almost swallowed by the surrounding silence, “I want some more.”

The master dropped his ladle. The beadle gasped. A profound sensation of horror and astonishment swept over the assembled guardians.

“What?” said the master, after a moment of stunned silence, his face turning a dreadful shade of purple.

“Please, sir,” repeated Oliver, with a slight tremor in his voice, but firmly enough to be heard, “I want some more.”

The master seized Oliver by the arms and rushed him down to the undertaker’s shop, where Mr. Sowerberry, the master, was also employed, and administered a summary punishment that left Oliver senseless on the stone floor.

The beadle was summoned.

“This child,” declared the master, gasping for breath, “this dreadful boy, has asked for more!”

Mr. Bumble listened with grim satisfaction. “Wretched boy! Come along with me, you shall see what happens to boys who ask for more.”

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