Chapter 13 Chapter Twelve

(In this chapter Oliver is looked after as never before, and returns to the merry old gentleman and his company of young friends.) The carriage rattled along the same road as when Oliver first entered London accompanied by the witty ghost. After passing the Angel's on Ellington Street, he turned to another road and drove all the way to Bentonville. A quiet avenue nearby stopped.Here, Mr. Brownlow personally supervised the battle, and immediately arranged a bed, and settled the little one very thoughtfully and comfortably.Here, he was cared for meticulously and lovingly. However, as the days passed, Oliver remained indifferent to the careful care of his new group of friends.The sun rose, set, rose again, and set again, and countless days passed.The child was still lying upright on that hard-earned bed, suffering from the fever and becoming thinner day by day.Maggots eating dead bodies are not as sure as roasting a living person dry over a slow fire.

On this day, the skinny and pale Oliver woke up at last, as if he had just finished a long nightmare.He struggled to get up from the bed, resting his head on his trembling shoulders, and looked around anxiously. "What is this place? Where am I?" said Oliver. "This is not where I sleep." His body was extremely weak, and his voice was very low when he said this, but someone heard him immediately.The curtain at the head of the bed was flung back, and a neatly dressed, kindly-looking old lady rose from the arm-chair next to the bed, where she had been sitting at her needlework.

"Hush, my dear," said the old lady kindly, "you must keep quiet, or you will be ill again, and you are very ill--not to mention how ill it is, it is strange. Better lie down Come down, you're a good boy," said the old lady, laying Oliver's head gently on the pillow, and brushing the hair from his forehead to one side.She looked at Oliver with such kindness and love that he could not help putting out a thin little hand, laying it on hers, and drawing her hand around his neck. "Yo," said the old lady with tears in her eyes, "what a gracious little chap, and a lovely trick. What if his mother, sitting beside him like me, could see him now too?" Yes I do."

"Perhaps she can really see me," whispered Oliver, clasping his hands; "perhaps she is sitting beside me, and I feel it." "That's because you have a fever, my dear," said the old lady gently. "I think so," replied Oliver, "that heaven is too far off here, for they will rejoice there, and not come to the bedside of a poor child. But if mother knows I am sick, even if she is there She must have thought of me, too, for she was very ill before she died. She knew nothing of me." Oliver was silent for a moment, and then added, "It would be very sad to her to know what I have suffered. Whenever I dream about her, her face is always beautiful and happy."

The old lady didn't answer this, she wiped her eyes first, and then wiped the glasses on the bed cover, as if the glasses were also an important part of the face.She fetched Oliver some cool drink, which she bid him drink, and patted him on the cheek, and told him that he must lie still, or fall ill again. So Oliver lay quietly on the bed, partly because he had made up his mind to listen to the good old lady in everything, and partly because, in truth, what had just been said After speaking, he was exhausted and fell asleep in a short while.At some point, a lighted candle moved near the bed, and he awoke. In the light of the candle, a gentleman held a large gold watch ticking in his hand, took his pulse, and said that he It has been much better.

"You feel much better, my dear, don't you?" said the gentleman. "Yes, sir, thank you," replied Oliver. "Well, I know you're hungry too, aren't you?" "Not hungry, sir," replied Oliver. "Well. Yes, I know you're not hungry. He's not, Mrs. Bedwin," said the very knowledgeable-looking gentleman. The old lady nodded very politely, as if she also thought the doctor was a very knowledgeable person, and the doctor himself seemed to agree. "You're still sleepy and sleepy, my dear, aren't you?" said the doctor.

"No, sir," replied Oliver. "The thing is," said the doctor, with a very dry and contented air, "that I don't want to sleep any more, and I don't feel thirsty, do I?" "No, sir, a little thirsty," replied Oliver. "As I reckon, Mrs. Bedwin," said the doctor, "it is natural for him to be thirsty. You may give him some tea, madame, with a little bread, and no butter. Don't let him sleep too warmly." Yes, ma’am, but more care should be taken not to make him feel too cold, do you understand what that means?” The old lady nodded again, and the doctor took a sip of the cool drink to express his approval, and left in a hurry.When he went downstairs, his boots creaked and rattled like a rich man.

After a while Oliver fell asleep again, and when he awoke it was almost twelve o'clock.Mrs. Bedwin bade him kindly good-night, and handed him over to the care of a stout old woman who had just arrived, and who had with her a little bundle containing a small prayer-book and a Big nightcap.The old woman put on her nightcap, put her prayer-book on the table, and told Oliver that she had come to keep him company.As the old woman spoke, she pulled the chair to the fireplace, and then dozed off one after another.She nodded and bowed forward from time to time, gurgling and making various noises, suddenly choking out of breath, and even drowsy and scared away, but all these did not have any adverse effects, at most she was just exerting herself. Rubbing his nose, he fell into a deep sleep again.

In this way, the long night slowly passed.Oliver had been awake for some time, now counting the little circles of light cast on the ceiling through the shades of the rush candles, and now looking sleepily at the intricate patterns of wallpaper on the walls.The room was dark and silent, with a solemn and solemn atmosphere. The child couldn't help but think that for countless days and nights, the god of death has been lingering here. Oliver turned his face away, fell on the pillow, and prayed fervently to God. Gradually, he entered into a peaceful sleeping village, which is a kind of tranquility that only people recovering from a serious illness can enjoy, a kind of peaceful rest, which makes people reluctant to wake up.Even if this is death, who wants to be awakened again, to face all the struggles and troubles of life, all the near and far-sighted worries, and above all, who wants to look back on the painful past.

It was high in the sun when Oliver opened his eyes.He felt refreshed and in a good mood.The crisis of this serious illness was passed safely, and he returned to the world again. For three whole days, he could only sit in an easy chair, leaning comfortably on the pillow.He was still too weak to walk, and Mrs. Bedwin, the housekeeper, had him carried to the little room downstairs which belonged to her.The kind old lady placed Oliver by the fireplace, and sat down herself. Seeing that Oliver was much better, she was happy, but immediately burst into tears. "Don't be surprised, my dear," said the old lady, "I cry when I'm happy, and that's what happens. You see, it's all right, it's very comfortable."

"You are too kind to me, madam," said Oliver. "Well, don't you mind it, my dear," said the old lady, "you'd better drink your broth, and you'd better go down with it now. The doctor says Mr. Brownlow is coming to see you this morning, We've got to take care of it, and the better we look, the happier he is," said the old lady, filling a bowl full of broth, and pouring it into a little saucepan to heat it up--very thick, thought Oliver. He said that if it was mixed with water according to the prescribed concentration, it would be enough for three hundred and fifty poor people to have a good meal. "Do you like pictures, dear?" asked the old lady, seeing Oliver fixate on a portrait which hung on the opposite wall opposite his chair. "I don't understand at all, ma'am," said Oliver, still not taking his eyes off the oil painting. "I haven't seen a few paintings at all, and I don't understand anything. The lady's face is so beautiful and kind." "Oh," said the old lady, "boy, painters always make ladies prettier than they are, or else they'd never get customers. Whoever invented the camera probably knew that wouldn't work, This business is too honest, this business." The old lady admired her wit and laughed happily. "Is that—is it a portrait, madam?" said Oliver. "Yes," while speaking, the old lady's eyes left the broth, and she looked up. "It's a portrait." "Whose is it, madam?" asked Oliver. "Oh, to tell you the truth, my boy, I don't know," replied Mrs. Bedwin, smiling. "Neither you nor I know anyone up there, I suppose. You seem to like that picture." ,Dear." "It's a lovely drawing," rejoined Oliver. "Why, you didn't tell it to frighten you?" said the old lady, quite surprised to find Oliver gazing at the picture with an air of awe in which he gazed. "Oh, no, no." Oliver turned around quickly. "It's just that those eyes looked like they were going to cry, and wherever I sat, they seemed to be looking at me, and it made my heart almost pop out." Oliver added in a low voice. , I still want to talk to me, but I can’t say it.” "God bless," cried the old lady, standing up. "Son, don't say that. You are just sick and weak, and you are not suspicious. Come on, let me adjust your chair so that you can't see, that's all right." The old lady said, It really did. "I can't see it now, and I can't see it anymore." Yet Oliver, through his own heart, saw the portrait so vividly that it seemed that the direction in which he sat had not changed at all.However, he thought it best not to worry the kind old lady any more, so when the old lady looked at him, he smiled meekly.Mrs. Bedwin was content to see that he was much better than he had been before.She added some salt to the soup, and crumbled a few slices of toast into it. The preparation was so important that it took a while.Oliver finished his soup with extraordinary rapidity.He had just swallowed the last spoonful of broth when there was a soft knock on the door. "Come in," said Mrs. Bedwin, and Mr. Brownlow entered. Here, the old gentleman walked in briskly, which is conceivable, but after a while, he propped his glasses to his forehead, put his hands behind his back in his dressing gown, and looked at it carefully for a long time. Looking at Oliver, all kinds of strange twitches appeared on his face.Oliver, who had just recovered from a serious illness, looked very weary and weak.Out of respect for his benefactor, he tried his best to stand up, but he couldn't stand still, and fell back on the chair.In fact, if the truth must be told, Mr. Brownlow was so broad-minded that he could have had as many as six gentlemen of good-natured and good-natured temperament.His heart sent two hot tears into his eyes by some kind of hydraulic action, a procedure which, since we are not very deep in philosophy, cannot be explained. "Poor boy, poor boy," said Mr. Brownlow, clearing his throat. "I'm a little hoarse this morning, Mrs. Bedwin. I'm afraid I have a cold." "I hope not, sir," said Mrs. Bedwin. "All your clothes are dry, sir." "I don't know, Bedwin, I don't know how," said Mr. Brownlow. "I'd rather think it was a damp napkin at supper yesterday, but that's all right. How do you feel, my boy?" " "Very pleasant, sir," replied Oliver; "you have been so kind to me, sir, that I cannot thank you enough." "A good boy," said Mr. Brownlow confidently. "Bedwin, have you taken any supplements for him? Even liquid ones, now?" "He just drank a bowl of delicious thick soup." Mrs. Bedwin bowed slightly, emphasizing the last word deliberately, meaning that ordinary liquid and well-cooked broth are not the same at all . "Ah." Mr. Brownlow's body trembled slightly. "Two glasses of claret would do him far better. Won't you, Tom White, huh?" "My name is Oliver, sir," answered the little invalid, with an air of great surprise. "Oliver," muttered Mr. Brownlow. "Oliver what? It's Oliver White, eh?" "No, sir, it's Twist, Oliver Twist." "That's a strange name," said the old gentleman. "Then how do you tell the magistrate that your name is White?" "I never said so, sir." Oliver wondered. These words sounded like nonsense, the old gentleman looked at Oliver's face with a somewhat sullen expression.It was impossible to doubt him, and his thin, thin features showed honesty everywhere. "It must be a mistake," said Mr. Brownlow.But though the motive which had prompted him to look at Oliver ceaselessly was no longer present, the old idea, that Oliver's features were too like some familiar face, came upon him with rapid force, His focused gaze couldn't be taken back for a while. "Please don't be angry with me, sir?" Oliver raised his eyes entreatingly. "No, no," answered the old gentleman. "Hello. Whose portrait is that? Look there, Bedwin." As he spoke, he pointed hurriedly to the portrait above Oliver's head, and to the child's face.Oliver's face was a perfect replica of that portrait.The eyes, the shape of the head, the mouth, every feature is exactly the same.The demeanor at that moment was so lifelike that even the most subtle lines seemed to have been copied with amazing accuracy. Oliver could not understand the reason for this sudden exclamation.Unable to bear the shock, he fainted.His passing out this time provided the author with an opportunity to go back and show the two young disciples of the jovial old gentleman, so as to keep the readers in suspense, and say—— The Dodger and his skillful friend, Master Bates, had illegally misappropriated Mr. Brownlow's personal property, resulting in a shouting pursuit of Oliver, in which they also took part, This point has been described earlier.They do this from a very admirable and very decent idea of ​​looking out for themselves.Since national independence and individual liberty are the pride of any true Englishman, I hardly need to draw the attention of my readers, an action which would naturally greatly elevate both of them in the eyes of all citizens and patriots.In the same way, the irrefutable proof that they are concerned only with their own safety is sufficient to establish and accept a little code, which certain erudite and famous philosophers have established as the chief motive of all instinctive actions.These philosophers are very shrewd, reducing all the actions of instinct to maxims and theories, and skilfully paying subtle compliments to the high wisdom and understanding of nature. , all thrown away somewhere.Speaking of which, after all, these things cannot be compared with nature. It is generally recognized that instinct is far more noble than all kinds of flaws and weaknesses that are inevitable for human beings. The two gentlemen in such a delicate situation have a rigorous philosophy of character traits, and if further proofs were needed I can easily point to the fact that they withdrew from the pursuit (discussed earlier in this book). ), the attention of the people was fixed on Oliver, and they both took the shortest and shortest way and slipped back.Though I do not intend to assert that taking shortcuts is also the way in which philosophers of great renown and erudition often arrive at great conclusions—their journeys are indeed lengthened by detours and stumbling steps, which It's like that drunken man who can't hold back his thoughts and starts to talk - but I do want to point out, and make it clear, that many of the great philosophers have shown foresight in implementing their theories, and they can Eliminate all possible and completely predictable accidental factors that are unfavorable to them.Therefore, for the greater good, regardless of the minor wrong, as long as the goal can be achieved, any means are justifiable.yes?no?Or how much difference there is between the two, all left to the philosopher involved, let him make a clear-headed, comprehensively balanced, fair and impartial judgment according to his own special circumstances. The two teenagers ran away at an extremely fast speed, passing through countless maze-like narrow streets and courtyards, and only dared to rest under a low and dim archway.The two remained silent for a while, and as soon as they breathed and could speak, Master Bates let out an exclamation of joy, followed by a burst of uncontrollable laughter, and he fell on a step, laughing. Gotta roll. "What's the matter?" asked the clever ghost. "Hahaha!" Charlie Bates laughed like a thunder. "Shut up," the clever ghost looked around carefully, and persuaded, "Idiot, you want to be caught, don't you?" "Didn't laugh," said Charlie, "didn't laugh. Just think about it, he's running like hell, he's round the corner in a flash, he's bumping into a pole, he's up and running, like he's following The telegraph poles are also made of iron, but I, with my mouth in my pocket, yelled after him—well, my mother." Master Bates' imagination was so vivid that he described what he had just said. The scene of the movie is slightly overdone.At this point, he rolled on the steps again, laughing even more than before. "What would Fagin say?" asked the Dodger, taking advantage of another pause for breath. "How?" repeated Charlie Bates. "Yes, what do you say?" said the Dodger. "Hey, what can he say?" Seeing that the witty ghost was not joking at all, Charlie's joy vanished. "What can he say?" Mr. Dakins whistled for a while, then took off his hat, scratched his head, and nodded three times in succession. "What do you mean?" Charlie said. "Turr lolu, roasted spinach with bacon, he's not a frog." The witty ghost said with a slight sneer on his clever face. This is an explanation, but it is not satisfactory.Master Bates also felt this way, so he asked again: "What do you mean?" The witty ghost didn't answer, but just put on his hat again, pulled up the hem of his coat with a long tail and tucked it under his armpits, pressed his tongue against his cheek, put on an intimate and meaningful look, and patted the bridge of his nose with his hand. After five or six turns, he turned back and turned into an alley, and Master Bates followed thoughtfully. A few minutes after the above conversation had taken place, the merry old gentleman, who was sitting by the fire with a dry sausage and a small piece of bread in his left hand, was startled by a creaking footstep on the stairs. , holding a pocket knife in his right hand, and a pewter pot resting on the triangle iron stand of the fireplace.When he turned his head, a ferocious smile appeared on his pale face, and a pair of eyes looked out from under the thick brown-red eyebrows.He turned his ear to the door, listening intently. "Hey, what's the matter?" The old Jew's expression changed, and he murmured, "Only two came back? Where did the other one go? They'll be fine, listen." The footsteps were getting closer and closer to the stairs.The door was slowly pushed open, and the Dodger and Charlie Bates walked in, and closed the door behind them.