Chapter 18 Chapter Seventeen

(Oliver's misfortune continues, drawing a dignitary to London to discredit him.) In all good murder repertoire, the alternation of pathetic and comical scenes has become a stage ritual, like fat, thin slices of well-smoked pork belly.Tired of shackles and misfortune, the hero collapses on a straw mattress.In the next scene, his faithful and clueless entourage amuses the audience with a comic ditty.With a beating heart we watch the heroine fall into the arms of an insolent and rude baron, with her virginity and her life at stake.She drew her dagger, ready to sacrifice her life to preserve her virginity.Just as our imaginations were being turned up to the max, we were transported straight to the castle hall at the sound of a horn, where a white-haired steward was leading a ridiculous song, and the chorus An even more ludicrous company of house-slaves, who come from everywhere, from church vaults to palace ramparts, are traveling in company and singing endlessly.

Such changes seem absurd, but they are not as unreasonable as they appear at first glance.In real life, from the dining table full of delicacies to the death bed, from the mourning clothes to the festival costumes, this change is no less amazing, but we are the ones who come and go in a hurry There is a world of difference between being an actor and not just a spectator watching.Actors who live by imitating plays in the theater have become numb to the violent transformation and sudden stimulation of emotion or perception, but once these are displayed before the eyes of the audience, they are dismissed as absurd and upside down.

In view of the sharp turn of the scene and the rapid change of time and place, it has not only been used in books for a long time, but many people also think it is a big deal-this kind of critics judges the superiority of the author mainly according to his writing at the end of each chapter. What Dilemmas the Characters Are In—The reader may think this brief introduction unnecessary.If this is the case, please take this passage as a subtle hint from the author of this book. The author will go straight back to the small town where Oliver Twist was born. Readers should consider this. There are good and urgent reasons for a journey, otherwise they would never have been invited to make such a journey.

Early this morning, Mr. Bumble walked out of the gate of the workhouse.He walked briskly into the street with an air of grandeur.He was beaming with the pride of a rectory: his three-cornered hat and overcoat gleamed brightly in the morning sun, he clutched his cane, and he was full of vigor and vigor.Mr. Bumble's head was always held high, and it was higher than usual this morning.His eyes were a little distracted, and his expression was cheerful. This look may have sent a warning to the careful stranger. The thoughts in this officer's mind are really indescribably great. He walked straight forward, and a few small shopkeepers talked to him respectfully and saluted him, but he didn't care to stop to say a few words, just waved his hand as a salute.He maintained this dignified gait until he entered Mrs. Mann's foster home.This lady, with parochial love, took care of the poor children in the foster-house.

"Damn the police." Mrs. Mann was annoyed by the familiar rattling of the garden door. "Master, it's not him to blame. Oh, Mr. Bumble, I knew it was you. Hi. Good God, I'm so glad, yes. Come into the parlour, sir." The opening sentence was addressed to Susan, and the pleasant pleasantries which followed were addressed to Mr. Bumble.The virtuous lady opened the garden door, and led him into the house with the utmost courtesy and courtesy. "Mrs. Mann," he didn't sit down like ordinary rough people who don't know etiquette, or let his body fall into the seat unconsciously, but slowly and slowly sat down on a chair . "Mrs. Mann, ma'am, good morning."

"Well, good morning to you too, sir," replied Mrs. Mann, with a broad smile on her face. "You are in good health, I suppose, sir." "So-so, Mrs. Mann," answered the clerk. "Rectory life is not a garden of roses, Mrs. Mann." "Oh, no, Mr. Bumble," replied Mrs. Mann.If all the children in the foster home had heard it, they would have sung the answer politely in unison. "A parish job, ma'am," continued Mr. Bumble, tapping his cane on the table, "has to worry, to be troubled, and to be brave. No public figure, I may say, can ever escape the courts."

Mrs. Mann did not quite understand what the rector was saying, but raised her hands in sympathy, and sighed. "Oh, Mrs. Mann, that's a pity indeed," said the steward. Seeing that she had done the right thing, Mrs. Mann sighed again, evidently trying to please the public figure, who was looking solemnly at the three-cornered hat, trying to hide a smug smile, and said: "Mrs. Mann, I'm going to London." "Well, Mr. Bumble," cried Mrs. Mann, stepping back. "To London, ma'am," continued the recalcitrant clerk, "in a coach, me, and two poor boys, Mrs. Mann. There's a case about residency coming up, trustee." I will be appointed—I, Mrs. Mann—to prove the matter at Clerkenwell Quarterly Court, which sits four times a year. I really doubt it,” added Mr. Bumble, puffing out his chest, “with me. Will the Clerkenwell Court see that they are mistaken before they speak out."

"Oh. You can't keep them down, sir." Mrs. Mann persuaded. "That's what Clerkenwell Quarterly Court did, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble. "If Clerkenwell Court finds the result much worse than they expected, it will be Clerkenwell Court itself to blame." .” Mr. Bumble's face was sullen, and he spoke with eloquence, showing that he was determined and determined to win. Mrs. Mann seemed to be completely convinced by his words.At the end, she said: "Are you going by shuttle bus, sir? I thought it was always the wagons that were used to take the poor people off."

"That's when they're sick, Mrs. Mann," said the clerk. "In the rainy season we put sick poor boys in gondolas to keep them from catching cold." "Oh." Mrs. Mann suddenly realized. "The shuttle back to London promises to pick them up, and the fares are cheap," said Mr. Bumble. "They're both dying, and we find it's two pounds cheaper to move them than to bury them—that is, Well, if we can throw them in another parish, that should work, as long as they don't die against us on the way, hahaha!" Mr. Bumble had just laughed for a while, when his eyes met the three-cornered hat again, and he became solemn again.

"We have forgotten business, ma'am, and here is your parish pay for the month." Mr. Bumble took out of his wallet a wad of silver coins rolled up in paper, and asked Mrs. Mann to write a receipt. "It's got a little ink on it, sir," said the Superintendent, "but I dare say it's pretty decent. Thank you, sir, Mr. Bumble. I can't thank you enough, really. of." Mr. Bumble nodded kindly, thanked Mrs. Mann for her curtsy, and asked how the children were doing. "God bless those lovely darlings." Mrs. Mann was filled with emotion. "They couldn't be better, these darlings. Except the two who died last week, of course, and Little Dick."

"Is the child not seeing well at all?" Mrs. Mann shook her head. "That's a bad-hearted little beggar, and he's never going to get better," said Mr. Bumble angrily. "Where is he?" "I'll bring him to you, sir," replied Mrs. Mann. "Come here, Dick." After calling for a while, she found Dick.He washed under some tub, and dried himself on Mrs. Mann's dressing-gown before being brought to see Mr. Bumble, Rector. The boy was pale and thin, with sunken cheeks, bright eyes wide open, and his frugal parish clothes, his pauper's uniform, hung loosely on his limp body, and his small limbs It has shrunk like an old man's. It was such a little thing that stood shivering under the gaze of Mr. Bumble, who dared not lift his eyes from the floor, and was frightened even at the sound of the steward. "Can't you look up at this gentleman, you stubborn boy?" Dick raised his eyes meekly, and his eyes met Mr. Bumble's. "What's the matter with you, Dick the Rectory?" asked Mr. Bumble, without losing his moment, in a comic tone. "Nothing, sir," replied the child feebly. "I don't think so," said Mrs. Mann, with a forced laugh at Mr. Bumble's humor. "Needless to say, you don't need anything." "I think—" the child stammered. "Ouch," interrupted Mrs. Mann. "You're going to say now, you really need something? Well, the little rascal—" "Wait, Mrs. Mann, wait." The secretary raised his hand and raised his air as an authoritative person, and said. "Brother, what are you thinking, huh?" "I think," stammered the boy, "if anyone can write, write a few words for me on a piece of paper, fold it up, seal it up, and keep it for me when I'm buried in the ground." .” "Why, what does the boy mean?" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, who had made a certain impression of Dick's prim, pale countenance, though he had seen it so often. "Brother, what are you talking about?" "I think," said the boy, "to leave my love to poor Oliver Twist, and to let him know how many times I've had to think of him wandering about in the dark night with no one to help him." The man sits down and cries and cries. I want to tell him," said the child, clasping his little hands together with great emotion, "that I am glad that I died before I grew up. If I grow up and grow old, maybe my little sister in heaven will forget about me, or not look like me at all. If we were both children, it would be much happier to be there .” Mr. Bumble, astonished beyond description, looked the talking creature from head to toe, and then turned to his old friend. "They're all alike, Mrs. Mann, and that Oliver is so lawless that he's screwed them all." "Sir, I don't believe it," said Mrs. Mann, raising her hands and looking at Dick viciously. "I've never seen such a nasty little rascal." "Take him away, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble haughtily. "The matter must be brought to the council, Mrs. Mann." "I hope gentlemen can understand that it's not my fault, what do you think?" Mrs. Mann said weeping bitterly. "They'll understand, ma'am, and get the facts right," said Mr. Bumble. "Come, take him away, I hate to see him." Dick was led out at once, and locked into the coal-cellar, and Mr. Bumble immediately took his leave, and packed his things. At six o'clock the next morning, Mr. Bumble climbed into the top seat of the stagecoach, his three-cornered hat replaced by a bowler hat, wrapped in a blue overcoat with a shawl, and carrying the two residency certificates. The prisoner in question arrived in London without incident.Nothing else happened on the way, except that the vices of the two boys had resumed, and they had been trembling and complaining about the cold, which, as Mr. Bumble said, made his teeth chatter and fight, and made him all Uncomfortable, even though he was wearing a coat. Mr. Bumble arranged for the lodging of the two rascals, went alone to the house where the train stopped, and dined on a light meal of oyster steak and stout.He put a scalding glass of gin and water on the mantelpiece, pulled his chair over to the fire, and sat down.He felt that the world was going downhill and people's hearts were not enough, and he was full of emotions for a while.Afterwards, he calmed down and read a newspaper. Mr. Bumble's eye rested on the opening paragraph, which was an announcement. five guineas Today a boy named Oliver Twist came from Bentonville at dusk last Thursday. I disappeared from my home, and it was said that I was abducted and ran away, but there has been no news so far.Anyone who can tell the following five guineas for the recovery of the above-mentioned Oliver Twist, whoever reveals his past One of the daily experiences is the same for both.The enlightener is very concerned about this, and there are many reasons for which I will not elaborate. This is followed by a detailed description of Oliver's dress, figure, appearance, and how he disappeared, and finally Mr. Brownlow's name and address. Mr. Bumble opened his eyes wide and carefully read the notice several times.A little over five minutes later, he was on his way to Bentonville.On impulse, he dropped the steaming glass of gin and water without even tasting it. "Is Mr. Brownlow in?" asked Mr. Bumble to the maid who opened the door. To this question, the maid's answer was not only strange, but also somewhat evasive: "I don't know, where are you from?" As soon as Mr. Bumble announced Oliver's name to explain his purpose, Mrs. Bedwin, who had been listening attentively at the drawing-room door, immediately held her breath and hurried into the corridor. "Come in—come in," said the old lady, "I knew I'd find out, poor boy. I knew I'd find out, and I never doubted it. God bless him. That's what I've always said. " After all, the venerable old lady hurried back to the living room, sat on the sofa and cried bitterly.The maid, who was not so sentimental, had already run upstairs, when she came down to send word that Mr. Bumble would follow her upstairs at once, which Bumble obliged. He went into the little inner study, where sat Mr. Brownlow and his friend Mr. Greenwig, with round rims and glasses before them.On seeing Bumble, the latter gentleman immediately cried out: "A clerk. Must be a parish errand, and I'll eat my head if I'm wrong." "Please don't interrupt at the moment," said Mr. Brownlow. "Please take a seat." Mr. Bumble sat down, much to his embarrassment by Mr. Greenwig's strange behavior.Mr. Brownlow moved the lamp so that he could have an undisturbed view of the rector's features, and said with a little anxiety: "Well, sir, you came here because you saw the notice?" "Yes, sir," said Mr. Bumble. "You're the parson, aren't you?" asked Mr. Greenwig. "Gentlemen, I am the parish steward," said Mr. Bumble, in a tone of great pride. "It goes without saying," said Mr. Greenwig, addressing his friend, "that I've known for a long time that a perfect vicar." Mr. Brownlow shook his head politely, and asked his friend to be quiet, and asked, "Do you know where the poor boy is?" "Not any more than anyone else," replied Mr. Bumble. "Well, what do you know about him?" asked the old gentleman. "Speak straight, my friend, if you have anything to say. What do you know about him?" "It's all good things you happen to know, don't you?" asked Mr. Greenwig sarcastically, who had made an absorbed study of Mr. Bumble's features. Mr. Bumble immediately understood the meaning of the question, and his countenance grew ominously solemn, and he shook his head. "See?" said Mr. Greenwig, looking triumphantly at Mr. Brownlow. Mr. Brownlow, looking thoughtfully into Mr. Bumble's frowning face, begged him to tell as briefly as possible all that he knew about Oliver. Mr. Bumble took off his hat, unbuttoned his overcoat, folded his hands, bowed his head in retrospect, pondered for a moment, and began to tell his story. To repeat the rectory's words--it would take some twenty minutes--is unpalatable, but the gist and substance is that Oliver was an outcast, born of lowly, and bad-natured parents.Since he was born, all he showed was reneging on what he promised, repaying kindness with revenge, and being vicious, and he didn't have any better qualities besides.In the birthplace, because of a brutal and cowardly attack on an innocent teenager, he fled from the owner's house at night, thus ending that short experience.To prove that he was not an imposter, Mr. Bumble spread out on the table the papers which he had brought with him, and again folded his arms for Mr. Brownlow to look at. "It all seems to be true," said Mr. Brownlow, sadly, having read the paper; "five guineas is not very generous for what you have given me, but if it would be good for the child, I would be more than willing to pay you three times as much." reward for this." Had Mr. Bumble been informed of the news earlier in this visit, he might well have given Oliver's resume a very different color, but it was too late now, and he shook his head with seriousness. Shaking his head, he put the five guineas in his purse and took his leave. Mr. Brownlow paced up and down the room for some time, apparently disturbed by what the rector had said, and even Mr. Greenwig had to refrain from adding fuel to the fire. Brown Luo Guangsheng finally stopped and rang the bell fiercely. "Mrs. Bedwin," said Mr. Brownlow, as soon as the housekeeper appeared, "the boy, Oliver, is a liar." "No, sir, it's impossible." The old lady firmly believed. "I say he is," retorted the old gentleman. "What do you mean by impossible? We've just had him told at length from his birth, and he's been a very good little rascal the whole time." "Anyway, I don't believe it, sir," said the old lady firmly, "never believe it." "You old ladies don't believe in anything but quacks and nonsense," growled Mr. Greenwig. "I knew it all along. Why didn't you take my advice in the first place? If he hadn't had a fever I'm afraid you'll accept it if you're sick, won't you? He's poor, isn't he? Poor? Bah!" Mr. Greenwig poked the fire as he spoke, with a playful gesture. "He's a good boy, knowing good and bad, and gentle, sir," protested Mrs. Bedwin indignantly. You can't praise this day, let alone say they are long or short, that's what I mean." It was a blow to Mr Greenwig, who is still single.Seeing that the gentleman just smiled and had no other reaction, the old lady raised her head and flicked her apron. She was about to argue again, but Mr. Brownlow stopped her. "Be quiet," said Mr. Brownlow, with an air of scowling which he was not aware of. "Don't ever mention that boy's name to me again. I'm ringing to tell you that. Never, never, under any pretext, take care. You can go out, Mrs. Bedwin, remember." Stay. I'm serious." Several hearts in Mr. Brownlow's house were filled with sorrow that night. Oliver's heart sank at the thought of his kind friends.It was a good thing he had no way of knowing what they had heard, otherwise one of his hearts might have been broken.