Oliver Twist Capitulo XXIII

CHAPTER XXIII

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 Mr. 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

consideraton 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 to-day, and they'll come back for another, the day after to-morrow, 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, 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 milkpot

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.