Chapter 38 Chapter Thirty-Seven

(The reader may see in this chapter the common phenomenon of very different circumstances before and after marriage.) Mr. Bumble sat morosely in a room in the workhouse, staring at the lifeless fireplace.For it was summer, and there was no brighter light to be seen there, except for a few faint gleams of sunlight bouncing off the cold, shiny surface of the fireplace.A paper flytrap dangled from the ceiling, and a few ignorant bugs circled around the colorful net.Mr. Bumble occasionally raised his eyes, looked at it with concern, and gave a long, heavy sigh, which immediately cast a shadow of greater despondency on his face.Mr. Bumble was thinking hard.Perhaps it was those few bugs that evoked a painful past in his heart.

It was not only Mr. Bumble's mournful expression which aroused a pleasant sadness in the minds of the spectators.There are also signs, closely tied to his identity, that his circumstances have changed dramatically.That fringed coat, and the three-cornered hat, where are they?He still wore tight shorts and dark gauze socks, but the tights were no longer the same.The coat was still wide-brimmed, which was similar to the previous one, but oh, what a world of difference.The imposing three-cornered hat was replaced by a modest bowler.Mr. Bumble is no longer a clerk. There are some promotions in life, not to mention the larger benefits they bring, whose special value and majesty come from the coat and vest closely connected with them.A field-marshal has the uniform of a field-marshal, a bishop has the bishop's silk vestment, a lawyer has the lawyer's silk robe, and a parson has his three-cornered hat.Take off the bishop's vestment or the clerk's cocked hat—what have they become?People, ordinary people.Sometimes, a coat or a vest can determine whether a person's appearance is majestic or not, and whether his bearing is holy enough, more than some people imagine.

Mr. Bumble married Mrs. Corney, and became superintendent of the workhouse.Another officer has been appointed.The three-cornered hat, the gold-rimmed coat, and the cane, all three were passed on to his successors. "To-morrow it will be two months' business," said Mr. Bumble, with a sigh. "It's like a whole lifetime." Perhaps Mr. Bumble meant that he had condensed a lifetime of happiness into a short period of eight weeks.But that sigh—that sigh meant a lot. "I've sold myself," Mr. Bumble traced the same train of thought. "Six teaspoons, a sugar tong, a milk pot, a few pieces of second-hand furniture, and twenty pounds in cash. I sold it cheap. Cheap, and a little too cheap."

"Cheap!" came a high-pitched voice into Mr. Bumble's ear. "No matter what price you pay, it's expensive. The price I paid for you is high enough. God knows it." Mr. Bumble turned around and just met his preoccupied wife. She overheard Mr. Bumble's sunrise complaints, and before she fully understood the meaning of those words, she covered her head and face with him as above A pass to steal the white. "Mrs. Bumble, ma'am!" said Mr. Bumble sternly, with a touch of sadness. "What's the matter?" cried the woman. "Please look into my eyes," said Mr. Bumble, looking intently at her. ("If she could stand such a look," said Mr. Bumble to himself, "why wouldn't she? I've never heard of it working against the poor. If defeated by Without her, my authority is over.")

Whether a stare was enough to subdue a class of half-starved and not the best-off poor, or was the widow of the late Mr. Coyny particularly able to bear a severe glance, Everyone can keep their opinions.In fact, the matron was not in the least overwhelmed by Mr. Bumble's scowl, but, on the contrary, she responded with great contempt, and even directed at him a fit of laughter which did not sound quite like a bluff. At this utterly unexpected laughter, Mr. Bumble was first incredulous, then stupefied.Then he returned to his previous appearance, and he didn't come back until his partner's voice awakened his attention again.

"You just sit there snoring all day?" asked Mrs. Bumble. "I shall sit here as long as I think fit, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, "though I have not snored just now, but I may snore, yawn, sneeze, laugh, if I please, You can cry too, it's my privilege." "Your privilege," sneered Mrs. Bumble, with unutterable contempt. "Yes, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, "it is a man's prerogative to give orders." "What is that woman's privilege? For God's sake, why don't you talk about it?" "Obey, ma'am," roared Mr. Bumble. "Your wretched ex-husband didn't teach you that, or he might be alive to this day. I wish he was alive, wretch." !"

Mrs. Bumble saw at once that the decisive moment had come, and that a final and fatal blow was necessary for either party to gain control.At the mention of dead relatives, she fell down on a chair with a thud, bursting into tears, and screamed that Mr. Bumble was a heartless beast. Yet nothing like tears could touch Mr. Bumble's soul, which was watertight.Just as a wet otterskin hat is better in the rain, his nerves have become stronger and stronger through the baptism of tears. Tears are a symbol of weakness, and until now they are also the tacit approval of his personal authority, which makes him happy , to excite him.He looked contentedly at his good wife, and in an encouraging tone begged her to cry as hard as she could, for this kind of exercise was very beneficial to health from a functional point of view.

"Crying relaxes the lungs, washes the face, exercises the eyes, and calms the anger," said Mr. Bumble. "Cry enough." Mr. Bumble, having said this amusing remark, took his hat from its peg, and put it on one side rather playfully on his head, like a man who feels that he has maintained a superior position with proper means, and put his hands in his pockets. As soon as he stuck it in, he swung towards the door, looking relaxed, unrestrained and slick. The late Mr. Coney's widow tried tears first, because it was less troublesome than striking, but she was ready to try the latter course of action, and Mr. Bumble was about to receive taught.

He experienced the first proof that this was the case with a thump on something solid and hollow, and then his hat flew across the room.Through this preparatory activity, the wife who is proficient in this art first exposed his head, then tightly strangled his neck with one hand, and rained down on his head with the other hand (with extraordinary strength. and skilled).After using this trick, she developed a new trick, scratching his face again, and pulling his hair again. By this time, she thought that the punishment that must be given for this offense was almost the same, so she threw him away. Pushing on a chair that was luckily placed in the right place, he pushed him into a somersault with the chair and himself, and asked him if he dared to say anything about his privilege.

"Get up!" ordered Mrs. Bumble. "If you don't want me to do something terrible, get out of here!" Mr. Bumble got up from the ground with a sad face, wondering what the fatal thing was.He picked up his hat and glanced towards the door. "Are you gone?" asked Mrs. Bumble. "Certainly, my dear, of course," replied Mr. Bunker, making a quick gesture to the door. "I didn't mean to--I'll go, my dear. You're making me so mad--" At this moment Mrs. Bumble hurried forward, intending to restore the rug which had been kicked up in the melee.Mr. Bumble didn't care to finish this sentence, and immediately rushed out of the room, allowing the former Mrs. Corney to occupy the entire battlefield.

Mr. Bumble was well startled, and well beaten.He evidently took no small pleasure in a penchant for bullying the weak, and as a result he was (it goes without saying) a coward.This is definitely not a slander of his character.For many officials of high prestige and reputation have fallen prey to such weaknesses.Indeed, there is no other meaning in saying this, and it is for his own good, in the hope that the reader will be able to get a correct idea of ​​his ability to perform official duties. However, his embarrassment did not stop there.Mr. Bumble walked round the workhouse, and it occurred to him for the first time that the Poor Law was so unkind, that men who run away from their wives and leave them in the care of the parish should not be punished. , but should be rewarded as an outstanding person who suffered and suffered.Thinking so, he walked towards a room where there were usually a few poor women who were responsible for washing the clothes distributed by the parish, and now there were several voices speaking in a loud voice. "Hmph!" said Mr. Bumble, gathering up his natural dignity. "At least these bitches should continue to respect the privilege. Hey! Hey! What's the fuss, you bitches?" Mr. Bumble pushed open the door and walked in aggressively, but when his eyes unexpectedly fell on his good wife, his attitude immediately changed into a very humble and cowardly one. face. "My dear," said Mr. Bumble, "I didn't know you were here." "Didn't know I was here," repeated Mrs. Bumble. "What are you doing here?" "I reckon they talk too much to do their work, my dear." Mr. Bumble, distracted, cast a glance at the two old ladies at the wash-tub, who, seeing the abbot's humility, They all felt admiration, and were commenting there. "You think they talk too much?" said Mrs. Bumble. "What business does it matter to you?" "Why, my dear—" muttered Mr. Bumble humbly. "What does it matter to you?" asked Mrs. Bumble again. "Yes yes, you are the steward here, my dear," yielded Mr. Bumble, "I thought you might not be here at the moment." "I tell you, Mr. Bumble," returned Mrs. "we don't need your meddling. You are so fond of meddling in matters that do not concern you that if you turn your back, the whole court will Laughing, you look like a fool all day long. Get out, go!" Mr. Bumble, seeing the great joy and giggling of the two poor old ladies, could not help hesitating for an unbearable anguish.Mrs. Bumble couldn't bear it any longer, took a basin of soapy water, and gestured to him, ordering him to leave at once, or let his fat body taste the soapy water. What could Mr. Bumble do?He looked around in frustration, then slipped away.As soon as he walked to the door, the tittering and giggling of the poor women suddenly turned into a cheerful rattling sound, which was really ear-piercing.All that's missing is this.His worth plummeted in their eyes.In front of these paupers, he lost his personality and status, and fell from the magnificent peak of being a parish clerk into the bottomless abyss of the most despised wife. "Two months in all," said Mr. Bumble in a terrible mood. "Two months. Not two months ago I was not only managing for myself, but for everyone in the parish workhouse, and now— —” It was so much that Mr. Bumble slapped the child who had opened the gate for him (he was already at the gate in his preoccupation), and went out into the street distraught. He walked street after street, and the former grief began to ease, and then the change in emotion made him feel thirsty again.He walked through countless hotels, and finally stopped in front of a hotel on the back street.He took a cursory glance inside from the curtain, and found that the booth was empty, except for a single customer.Just then, it began to rain heavily.There is no other way.He entered the hotel, ordered something to drink, passed the bar, and entered the private room he had seen on the street. The man sitting inside was tall and dark, wearing a wide cloak. He didn't look like a local. Judging from his slightly haggard face and the dust all over his body, he seemed to have come from afar.Bumble greeted the man as he entered, who gave him a sidelong glance and nodded indifferently.Mr. Bumble's arrogance was worth two people, and it would not have done him any favors if strangers were easier to approach, so he sipped his gin and water in silence, and read the newspaper with full airs. It so happened, as often happens when people come together under such circumstances, that Mr. Bumble felt from time to time an irresistible impulse to steal a glance at strangers.Whenever he did this, he retracted his eyes in embarrassment, because he found that the stranger was also secretly looking at him at the same moment.The stranger's eyes were piercing and piercing, but were clouded by a look of wariness and suspicion, which was repulsive; and Mr. Bumble, who had never seen such an unusual expression, could not help but be still more bewildered. In this way, after the eyes of each other met several times, the stranger broke the silence with a harsh, low voice. "Were you looking for me when you looked in through the window?" he said. "I didn't mean that, sir, are you—" Mr. Bumble stopped abruptly at this point. He was eager to know the name of the stranger, and he expected that the other party would fill in the blank. "I don't think that's what you mean," the stranger's mouth twitched, revealing a hint of sarcasm. "Otherwise you wouldn't inquire about my name. You don't know my name. I would advise you not to inquire about it." "I don't want to offend you, young man," said Mr. Bumble generously. "No offense to you," said the stranger. After this short conversation, there was another silence, and it was the stranger who broke the deadlock again. "I'm afraid I've seen you before," said the stranger. "You were dressed differently then, and I just passed you face to face in the street, but I must remember. You were the local parishioner, weren't you? " "I was," Mr. Bumble somewhat surprised, "rector." "That's right," the other nodded, and took over the topic, "I saw you in that position at the time. What are you doing now?" "The Master of the Workhouse," said Mr. Bumble, slowly, trying to make an impression so as not to induce any disproportionate enthusiasm. "Master of the workhouse, young man." "I don't know if your eyes are still the same, only looking at your own interests?" continued the stranger, looking fiercely into Mr. Bumble's eyes, and this question caused the other person to look up in amazement. "Anything you want, man. You can tell I know you pretty well." "I suppose a married man is as good as a bachelor," replied Mr. Bumble, shading the light with his hand, and looking the stranger from head to toe, it was evident that he could not stand. "I'm not opposed to earning two clean money when I have the opportunity. The salary of the parish staff is not high, so I won't refuse any small extra money, as long as it comes from a proper way and rules." The stranger smiled, nodded again, as if to say he was right, and rang the bell. "Another glass," said he, handing Mr. Bumble's empty glass to the bartender. "A fierce and hot cup, you like that, I suppose?" "Don't be too aggressive," replied Mr. Bumble, with a slight cough. "Shopkeeper, you know what this means." The stranger said dryly. The proprietor withdrew with a smile, and in a second came back with a glass full of wine, and Mr. Bumble had barely taken a sip when tears welled up in his eyes. "Now listen to me," said the stranger, closing the door and window, "that I have come to this place today to find you. Sometimes, indeed, by accident, when I am thinking of you, you go away. Come into this room where I'm sitting. I want to ask you something, and I won't let you talk about it, even though it's not a big deal. Put this little thing away first." As he spoke, he carefully pushed the two gold pounds across the table towards his companion, as if he didn't want outsiders to hear the clink of coins.Mr. Bumble turned it over and over, and when he saw that the coins were genuine, he put them into his waistcoat pocket with great satisfaction.The stranger continued: "Bring your memory back to - let me see - that winter twelve years ago." "Not a short time," said Mr. Bumble. "Very well. I remember." "Location, the workhouse." "it is good" "The time is night." "Yes." "Scene, that shabby den, wherever it is, shameless bitches who often die themselves, not to mention health--bringing wailing children to be raised by parishes, and put their scandalous , damn it, took it to the grave and hid it." "The maternity room, I suppose?" said Mr. Bumble.The stranger was speaking impassionedly, and he was a little behind. "Yes," said the stranger, "a child was born there." "Lots of kids." Bumble shook his head, discouraged. "These damned brats," cried the stranger, "I mean one of them, a wretched-looking, bloodless boy, who had been apprenticed for a while to the owner of a local coffin shop--I wish he could." The coffin was built for him long ago, he was put in it, and the screws were tightened—he went to London, it is said.” "Oh, you mean Oliver, little Twist," said Mr. Bumble. "Of course I remember him. No little rascal is so obstinate—" "I don't want to ask about him; I've heard a great deal about him," said Mr. Bumble, who was about to enumerate the crimes of the unfortunate Oliver, when the stranger stopped him. "It's a woman I want to inquire about, the ugly one who took care of his mother. Where is she now?" "Where is she?" said Mr. Bumble, with a gin and water base, and began to be humorous. "That's hard to say. Anyway, where she goes, there is no need for a midwife. I guess she has nothing to do anyway." "What do you mean?" asked the stranger solemnly. "That means she died last winter," answered Mr. Bumble. Hearing the news, the stranger stared at him intently and didn't look away for a while, but his eyes gradually became blank and bewildered, as if he was lost in thought.For a while, he seemed a little unsure whether he should be relieved or disappointed to hear the news, but in the end he breathed a sigh of relief, looked away, and said that it was not a big deal.After all, he stood up, as if planning to leave. Mr. Bumble, however, was cunning and cunning, and he saw at once that an opportunity lay at hand for him to profit from some secret in his master's possession.He couldn't remember the night that old Sally died very clearly. That day was the happy day when he proposed to Mrs. Corney. He had experienced many things, and he had every reason to think of that day.Although the wife never revealed to him that she was the only witness, he had heard many things about the old woman who worked as a nurse in the workhouse to take care of Oliver Twist's young mother.He quickly remembered the situation at that time, and mysteriously told the stranger that the ghost old woman had talked with a lady behind closed doors before she died, and he had reason to believe that the lady could give him what he wanted. Ask about things to provide some clues. "How am I going to find her?" said the stranger, throwing his defensiveness aside, making it clear that with this news all his fears (whatever he was afraid of) came back to him. "Only through me," replied Mr. Bumble. "When?" the stranger shouted hurriedly. "To-morrow," replied Bumble. "Nine o'clock in the evening," the stranger took out a piece of paper, and wrote on it a residential address close to the river, in a remote place; from the handwriting, it could be seen that he was very excited. "Bring her to me at nine o'clock in the evening. I need not enjoin you to keep it a secret. It will be to your advantage." Following these words, he walked towards the door first, stopping for a while on the way to settle the drink bill.He said that the two of them were on different paths, and then emphatically reminded them of the agreed time the next night, and left without any further politeness. The director of the workhouse took a look at the address and found that there was no name written on it.At this time, the stranger hadn't gone far, so he rushed up to ask for clarification. "What do you want?" cried Bumble, slapping the stranger on the shoulder, who turned suddenly. "You follow my tail." "Just one question," the other party pointed to the piece of paper and said, "Who should I go to?" "Moncos." The man replied, and hurriedly strode away.