Chapter 15 Chapter Fourteen

(A further account of Oliver's stay at Mr. Brownlow's, in which, while he was away on errands, a Mr. Greenwig made a remarkable prophecy for him.) Mr. Brownlow uttered a sudden exclamation, which caused Oliver to faint with fright, and he awoke a moment later.In the ensuing conversation, the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin were very careful not to talk about the person in the painting, nor did they talk about Oliver's past and future, so that the topics would make him feel happy without irritating him. limit.He was still too weak to get up and eat breakfast by himself.The next day, when he went downstairs to the housekeeper's room, his first act was to look eagerly at the wall, hoping to see the pretty lady's face again.His hopes were thwarted, however, and the portrait has been removed.

"Ah," said the housekeeper, observing the direction of Oliver's eyes, "you see, it's gone." "I found it missing too, ma'am," replied Oliver. "Why should they take the picture?" "It's taken off, my boy, Mr. Brownlow said, and it seems to give you a hard time, and it might interfere with your recovery, you know." "Oh, no, really, it doesn't bother me at all, ma'am," said Oliver, "I like to see it, I like it." "Okay, okay." The old lady agreed cheerfully, "You grow up as soon as possible, baby, and the painting will hang up again. Oh, I promise you. By the way, let's talk about something else thing."

That was all Oliver could know of the portrait at the moment.He thought of how good Mrs. Bedwin had been to him during his illness, and made up his mind not to think of it now.With his attention he listened to her many stories of a lovely and pretty daughter married to a lovely and handsome husband, both daughter and son-in-law living in the country, and a son in the West Indies working as a trader's job. Staff, my son is also a nice young man, very filial, he writes letters to his family four times a year.Speaking of the letters brought tears to her eyes.The old lady talked about the advantages of her children for a long time, and also said that her considerate and gentle husband also had countless advantages. He has passed away, how pitiful.A full twenty-six years.It's time for tea.After tea she began to teach Oliver the game of cribbage.Oliver learned quickly, and did not trouble her at all.The two played with gusto and tirelessness until it was time to bring the patient some warm claret and water with a slice of toast, and then he went to sleep contentedly.

How happy were those days when Oliver recovered his health.Everything around is so peaceful, clean, and well-organized—everyone is so amiable—he has always lived in the hustle and bustle, and in his opinion, this place seems to be paradise.As soon as he was able to dress himself, Mr. Brownlow had a new suit, hat, and shoes bought for him.Oliver learned that he could dispose of those old clothes at will, so he gave them to a maid who took good care of him, and asked her to sell them to a Jew, and keep the money for herself.She got it done quickly.Oliver looked out of the drawing-room window, and saw the Jew roll up his old clothes, put them in a bag, and go away.He was full of joy, thinking that these things were finally disposed of, and that he was now in no danger of having to put them on again.They were, indeed, rotten rags, and Oliver had never had a new suit.

One evening, about a week after the portrait incident, he was sitting chatting with Mrs. Bedwin, when Mr. Brownlow sent word that if Oliver Twist was in good spirits he wished to be in his own Meet him in the den and talk to him. "Oh, I can't help it. You wash your hands, and I'll do a nice part for you, child," said Mrs. Bedwin. "It's terrible. If we knew he was going to ask you, we should have put a pair on you." A clean collar will make you as handsome as a sixpence." Oliver did as the old lady bid.Even though she kept regretting that time, it was too late to make a small ripple on the edge of his shirt collar.Despite the loss of such an important advantage, his appearance was still very handsome and attractive.The old lady was very satisfied, and while looking at him from head to toe, she said: Even if I had been notified earlier, I am afraid I couldn't dress him up more energetically.

Encouraged by the old lady's words, Oliver knocked on the study door.Mr. Brownlow asked him to go in, and he went in.He found that this small back room was like a bookstore.There was a window in the house, which looked on to several fine little flower-beds.There was a table near the window, and Mr. Brownlow was sitting at it reading.Seeing Oliver, he pushed the book aside, and bade him sit down near the table.Oliver did so, and wondered where he could find people who needed to read so many books, which seemed to be written to make the world wise.For many people who are more knowledgeable than Oliver Twist, this is still an incredible thing in their daily life.

"There are a lot of books, isn't it, my lad?" Mr. Brownlow observed, and Oliver surveyed the floor-to-ceiling shelves with evident curiosity. "A lot of books, sir," replied Oliver, "I never saw so many books." "You can read them too, if you behave yourself," said the old gentleman kindly, "and you'll love them more than just for their appearance—which is, in some cases, because some of them are The essence is just the back cover of the book." "I reckon it must be the thick ones, sir," said Oliver, pointing to some large quarto books with gilt covers.

"Not necessarily," said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head, and smiling. "There are also some big books, although they are much smaller in length. How about it? Do you want to grow up to be a smart person and write books, eh?" "I'm afraid I'd rather read, sir," replied Oliver. "What! You don't want to be a book writer?" said the old gentleman. Oliver thought a little while, before saying that he thought it much better to be a book-seller.On hearing this, the old gentleman laughed happily, and said he had told a wonderful thing.Oliver was very pleased, though he knew nothing of the beauty of the remark.

"Well, well," said the old gentleman, calming down, "you don't have to be afraid. We don't train you to be a writer, but you can learn any decent trade, or you can learn to make bricks instead." "Thank you, sir." Mr. Brownlow laughed again with the seriousness of Oliver's answer, and mentioned a strange intuition, which Oliver knew nothing of, nor did he care much about. care. "Well," said Mr. Brownlow, trying to speak mildly, but at this moment his countenance was much more serious than Oliver had ever been familiar with. "Son, I want you to pay attention to what I have to say, and I want to talk to you frankly, because I have every confidence that you will understand me, as many people of my age do."

"Oh, sir, don't tell me you're sending me away, please," cried Oliver, startled by the seriousness of the old gentleman's opening remarks. "Don't throw me out, and make me wander the streets again, and let me stay here, a servant. Don't send me back to where I was, sir, and have pity on a wretched boy." "My dear boy," said the old gentleman, struck by Oliver's sudden excitement. "You don't have to be afraid, I won't abandon you unless you give me a reason to do so." "I won't, never will, sir," said Oliver hastily.

"I hope so," promised the old gentleman, "and I'm sure you won't. I've done my best to help some people before, and I've been cheated. In any case, I still trust you with all my heart. I can't say no to myself." Why do I care about you so much. Those people I have poured my heart into have been buried in the underworld, and the happiness and joy of my life have also been buried there. Become a coffin, sealed forever. The pain of the skin only makes this feeling stronger and purer." Mr. Brownlow spoke eloquently, not so much to his companion as to himself.Then he paused a little while Oliver sat beside him in silence. "Okay, okay." The old gentleman finally spoke, and his tone seemed more cheerful. "I'm just saying, because you've got a young heart, if you knew I've been through so much, you'd have been more careful and probably wouldn't have stabbed me in the heart again. You say you're an orphan, look up I have no relatives, and the results of my many inquiries have confirmed this. Let me also hear your story, tell me where you are from, who brought you up, and how I met you when I saw you. The gang got it together. Don't hide anything, and as long as I'm alive, you won't be helpless." Oliver choked up sobbing, and was speechless for a while, when he was about to describe how he had been brought up in the foster-house, and how Mr. Bumble had taken him to the workhouse, when there was a knock at the gate. There was an impatient "bang bang bang bang" at the door, and a servant ran upstairs to report that Mr. Greenwig had arrived. "He came upstairs?" asked Mr. Brownlow. "Yes, sir," answered the servant, "he asked if there were any muffins in the house, and I told him there were, and he said he had come for tea." Mr. Brownlow smiled, and turning to Oliver, said that Mr. Greenwig was an old friend of his, and that he must not be troubled by a little roughness of manner, for the gentleman was a very good fellow.Mr. Brownlow is right to say so. "Shall I go downstairs, sir?" asked Oliver. "No," replied Mr. Brownlow, "I want you to stay here." At this time, an old gentleman with a strong physique came in.He had a slight pain in one leg, and was leaning on a thick cane. He was wearing a blue coat, a striped vest, light yellow breeches underneath, leggings, and a wide-brimmed white top hat with a green badge on his head. The edge of the shirt is turned up, and the collar of the shirt protrudes from the vest. The edge of the collar is very fine, and there is a long steel pocket watch chain dangling below, and a key is hung on the end of the chain.The two ends of the white scarf were twisted into a ball, about the size of an orange.He twisted his face and made various expressions on his face that people couldn't describe at all.He always likes to turn his head to one side when he talks, and look out of the corners of his eyes at the same time, which inevitably makes people who see him think of a parrot.He settled there as soon as he came in, put on that posture, stretched his arms long, took out a small piece of orange peel, and roared angrily: "Look. See this? It's the devil. Every time I visit a house, I find it on the stairs. Could it be the poor doctor's friend? I've gotten sick from the orange peel once. Well, the orange peel will kill me one day. Yes, sir, the orange peel will kill me, and if not, I'll be willing to eat my own head, sir." Mr. Greenwig finally boasted this sentence. Every time he made a claim, he almost always used this sentence as a backing.In his particular case this is all the more inconceivable, for even for the purpose of making this argument, admitting that every advance possible in science has reached the point where a gentleman could eat his own head if he so wished. However, Mr. Greenwig's head is so huge that even the most confident person in the world would not dare to expect to eat it in a single meal—not to mention the fact that it is covered with a thick layer of hair powder. "I could eat my head, sir," repeated Mr. Greenwig, tapping the floor with his cane. "Well, what is this?" He looked at Oliver, and took two steps back. "This is little Oliver Twister, of whom we were speaking," said Mr. Brownlow. Oliver bowed. "I hope you didn't say he was the boy with the fever?" said Mr. Greenwig, stepping back a few steps. "Wait. Be quiet. Stop—" continued Mr. Greenwig, suddenly elated with his new discovery, and all his doubts and fears about the fever vanished. "He's the kid who ate the orange. If it wasn't the kid who ate the orange and threw the peel on the stairs, man, I'd eat my head and his too." "No, no, he hasn't had an orange," laughed Mr. Brownlow. "All right. Take off your hat and talk to my young friend." "I'm very touched on that subject, sir," said the irritable old gentleman, taking off his gloves, "there's always a few pieces of orange peel on the sidewalk in our street. I know it was left there by the surgeon's son on the corner. A young woman slipped on it last night and hit the railing in my garden. As soon as she got up, I saw her Look at his damn red light, it's all a circus light. 'Don't you go to him,' I yelled out the window, 'he's a murderer. He's a scammer.' So it was. If he hadn't—" At this point, the irascible old gentleman paused on the ground with his cane, and his friends always understood the meaning of this gesture. move out.Then he sat down, still holding his cane, opened a pair of spectacles which hung from his body with wide black straps, and looked at Oliver, who blushed and bowed again when he saw that he was the object of censorship. bowed. ① At that time, a red light was set up in front of the doctor's clinic as a sign. "He's the boy. Is he?" asked Mr. Greenwig at last. "It's the boy," replied Mr. Brownlow. "How are you, child?" said Mr. Greenwig. "Much better, sir, thank you," replied Oliver. Mr. Brownlow, seeming to perceive that his queer friend was about to say something unpleasant, sent Oliver down-stairs to tell Mrs. Bedwin that they were ready for tea.Oliver, not at all liking the manners of his visitor, went cheerfully downstairs. "The boy is very pretty, isn't he?" asked Mr. Brownlow. "I don't know," said Mr. Greenwig gruffly. "have no idea?" "Yeah, I don't know. I've never seen any difference between little hairy kids. I only know that there are two types of kids. One is pink-faced, and the other is flesh-faced." "What sort is Oliver?" "Flour-faced. I know a friend whose son is flesh-faced. They still call him a good boy--with a round head, a red face, and bright eyes, but he is just a really hateful kid. Body and limbs that seem to tear the seams of his blue suit, with a voice like a pilot's, and a wolf's appetite. I know him. The rascal." "Come," said Mr. Brownlow, "little Oliver Twist is not like that to excite you." "Isn't it like that," replied Mr. Greenwig, "perhaps worse." Speaking of this, Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently, but Mr. Greenwig seemed to feel indescribably relieved. "It might be worse," repeated Mr. Greenwig. "Where's he from? What's his name? What's his business? He's got fever, so what? Fever doesn't only happen to good people, does it? Bad people sometimes get fever too, don't you, oh?" I know a man who was hanged in Jamaica for the murder of his master, and he had six fevers and no pardon for it. Pooh. That's nonsense." As it happened, Mr. Greenwig was eager to admit that Oliver's appearance and manners were very pleasant, but he was born to argue, and this time he wanted to admit that the piece of orange peel he picked up. It's a bullshit.He secretly made up his mind that no one would try to dictate to him whether a child was beautiful or not, and from the beginning he was determined to compete with his friends.Mr. Brownlow confessed that he had hitherto been able to give no satisfactory answer to any question, and that he had put aside the examination of Oliver's past till he thought the boy could stand it.At this time, Mr. Greenwig sneered, and asked sarcastically if the housekeeper had any rules for counting the tableware at night, because as long as she didn't find a silver spoon or two missing on a sunny morning, Hey, he would--and so on. Though Mr. Brownlow himself was a quick-tempered gentleman, he was well aware of his friend's eccentricities, and accepted them all with rare pleasure.At tea Mr. Greenwig was beaming and applauded the muffins.The atmosphere is very harmonious.Oliver was there, too, and he gradually felt less nervous than he had first met the fierce old gentleman. "When will you hear the story of Oliver Twister's life in detail?" After tea, Mr. Greenwig squinted at Oliver and brought up the matter again. . "To-morrow morning," replied Mr. Brownlow, "I hope he will be alone with me then. Come to me at ten o'clock to-morrow morning, my dear." "Yes, sir," replied Oliver.Because Mr. Greenwig was always staring at himself, and his eyes were so stern, he was a little restless, and he hesitated to answer. "I have a word with you," said Mr. Greenwig in a low voice to Mr. Brownlow. "He won't come to you tomorrow morning. I don't think he's made up his mind. He's deceiving you, my dear." friend." "I can swear he won't," replied Mr. Brownlow mildly. "If not, I'd rather—" Mr. Greenwig struck again with his cane. "I put my life on the boy's honesty," said Mr. Brownlow, tapping the table. "I'll put my head on him that he'll tell a lie," replied Mr. Greenwig, tapping the table also. "We'll see," said Mr. Brownlow, suppressing rising anger. "We shall see," replied Mr. Greenwig with an exasperating smile, "we shall see." At this very moment, as if by fate, Mrs. Bedwin brought in a little packet of books which Mr. Brownlow had bought that morning from the book-stall keeper who has already appeared in this biography, She put the book on the table and was about to leave the room. "Tell the book boy to wait, Mrs. Bedwin," said Mr. Brownlow. "He has something to take home." "He's gone, sir," replied Mrs. Bedwin. "Call him back," said Mr. Brownlow. "It's true that he's not rich himself, and the books haven't been paid for. There's a few books to send back." The door opened, and Oliver and the maid chased it out in two separate ways. Mrs. Bedwin stood on the steps, calling loudly for the children who brought the books, but there was no one in sight.Oliver and the maid came back panting, and reported that they did not know where he had gone. "Tsk tsk, what a pity," said Mr. Brownlow, "I wish I could send these books back tonight." "Tell Oliver to deliver it," said Mr. Greenwig, with a sardonic smile on his face. "You know he will deliver it safely." "Yes, sir, let me go, if you will," entreated Oliver; "I will run all the way, sir." Mr. Brownlow was about to say that Oliver was in no way fit to go out under such circumstances, when Mr. Greenwig's cough, full of malice, compelled him to decide to send Oliver on his way, and to do it quickly. In this case, he could prove to Mr. Greenwig that his suspicions were unjust—at least on this point—and immediately. "You should go, my dear," said the old gentleman. "The book is in a chair by my table. Go and get it." Oliver was glad to see that he would be of use.He hurried downstairs with some books under his arm, hat in hand, and waited for orders. "Say," said Mr. Brownlow, looking intently at Mr. Greenwig, "that you have come to return the books, and hand him the four pounds ten shillings I owe him. It is a five-pound note." , you must bring back the ten shillings you found." "I'll be back in ten minutes, sir," said Oliver impatiently, and he put the bill in his jacket pocket, buttoned it up, and tucked the books carefully under his arm, respectfully. He bowed and left the room.Mrs. Bedwin followed him to the gate, and gave him many directions, including the nearest road, the name of the book-stall owner, and the name of the street. Oliver said he knew everything.The old lady added a lot of warnings, be careful on the road, don't catch cold, and then allowed him to leave. "For the sake of his pretty face, don't let anything happen to you." The old lady watched him go outside the door. "Anyway, I'm really worried about letting him go where I can't see him." At this moment Oliver glanced over his head cheerfully, and before turning the corner he nodded, and the old lady returned the salute with a smile, and shut the door, and went to her room. "I think he'll be back in twenty minutes at the most," said Mr. Brownlow, taking out his watch and laying it on the table. "By then, it will be almost dark." "Oh, you really thought he'd come back, didn't you?" asked Mr. Greenwig. "You don't see it that way?" asked Mr. Brownlow, smiling. Mr. Greenwig's urge to fight against each other was already hard to suppress, but seeing his friend's confident smile made him even more excited. "No," said he, pounding the table with his fist, "I don't think so, the boy is in a new suit, and has a stack of valuable books under his arm, and a five-pound note in his pocket. He'll go to his old gang of thieves and make fun of you back. If that boy ever comes back into the house, sir, I'll eat my own head." After saying this, he pulled the chair towards the table.The two friends sat there without saying a word, each with his own thoughts, and the watch between them. To illustrate how seriously we place our own judgments, and how conceited we can be in reaching some extremely reckless and rash conclusions, it is worth noting that, while Mr. He would have been sincerely sorry that his esteemed friend had been deceived, but at this moment he wished very strongly that Oliver should not come back. It was so dark that even the numbers on the watch could hardly be read.The two old gentlemen still sat there in silence, with the watch between them.