Oliver Twist
Page 2
Fagin, of course, will be hanged, and at the time of his penultimate moments, when he is on trial and alone in his cell, Dickens descends into his mind. He forgets to condemn him and he does what good writers cannot help but do: he becomes the character of whom he has so disapproved. He senses Fagin's dark isolation "in all this glare of living light," as he attends his trial; he notes the many faces turned toward him, he meditates on how the judge is dressed, for he is seizing details as if they may keep him afloat in this sea of Christian retribution. He watches a man who is sketching him, and he "looked on when the artist broke his pencil-point, and made another with his knife...." This lovely human moment, almost sacred in its ordinariness, suggests what Fagin is about to lose when he is executed, and its smallness is somehow more telling than any expatiation about loss of life and liberty. The artist in Dickens overwhelms the moralist as he portrays the mind of the guilty and condemned.
We might contrast the language Dickens employs when he celebrates the beauty and goodness of Rose Maylie, who, almost dying, loses nothing, we are told, of her beauty although "there was an anxious, haggard look about the gentle face," and then she became "deadly pale." Oliver cries out about "how young and good she is, and what pleasure and comfort she gives to all about her.... Heaven," he concludes, "will never let her die so young." This is the language of conventional mourning; it is all utterance and little particularity, and it is taken by Dickens directly from his own life. We return now to Mary Hogarth, his wife's seventeen-year-old sister, who lived with them and who died in his arms at the house on Doughty Street; where we left them. He clearly loved her, and in noteworthy degree for a man whose young bride was pregnant early in their marriage. He took to wearing Mary's ring after she died, and he kept a lock of her hair; he dreamed of her nightly and at one point expressed a wish that he might be buried so that their bones intermingled. For the first and only time in his career, he failed to meet the deadline for his monthly part of a novel in progress. And though he tries in Oliver Twist to import the sorrow of the lived event into his fiction, he at best only touches its surface.
Yet give him an imagined murderer, and his language is set alight. After Bill Sikes has killed Nancy, he sits all night with the corpse. As sunlight fills the room, we are witness to a kind of aubade, the traditional dawn song of love poetry--the lovers, waking in each other's arms, observe that they must part before they are discovered--and Dickens turns it perverse. In the blindness of his rage, Sikes had "struck and struck again." Then, trying to evade the reality of his act, "he threw a rug over it": Nancy has been reduced from personhood to thing; she is "it," an item of mortality. But he could not cover "it," because "it was worse to fancy the eyes, and imagine them moving toward him...." Dickens lives inside Sikes now, with his great gift of understanding outcasts. His dawn song is to see the victim's eyes "as if watching the reflection of the pool of gore that quivered and danced in the sunlight on the ceiling." Blood is everywhere in the room. "The very feet of the dog were bloody": Dickens leaves us to imagine how the bloody paw prints go back and forth between the victim and Sikes himself.
Chapter XLVIII, "The flight of Sikes," is a descent into the fear and alienation of the murderer. Dickens examines how he is isolated from the human community--how he is impelled to hurl himself into fighting the fire he comes upon because it is a communal response to emergency and he yearns to be part of the social group, but finally cannot. The index of Sikes' utter alienation is, of course, his dog. We must recall that he is a large and fearless animal. We have seen him yank on the end of a fireplace poker with his big jaws to keep Sikes from beating him with it. But he is loyal to Sikes and, even when driven away, follows his master at a distance. He senses when Sikes decides to kill him, for the murderer finally knows no loyalties; in separating from the dog, his very shadow, he displays his final separation from himself. The dog doesn't abandon him, and he follows his master into death.
The death is accidental. Sikes is trying to use a long rope for his escape. Still haunted by Nancy's staring dead eyes, he loses his balance and falls from the parapet of the building from which even his gangster associates have driven him. "The noose was at his neck. It ran up with his weight, tight as a bow-string, and swift as the arrow...." He falls thirty-five feet, and then "There was a sudden jerk, a terrific convulsion of the limbs; and there he hung...." We have watched a noose slowly tighten for the length of the book. It was the rope with which Oliver was threatened when, in chapter VI, Noah Claypole "announced his intention of coming to see him hung"; it was suggested when, in chapter XIII, "Mr. Sikes contented himself with tying an imaginary knot under his left ear, and jerking his head over on the right shoulder ..."; it is suggested when, in chapter XVI, Fagin is "knitting his shaggy eyebrows into a hard knot"; Oliver is threatened with it when, in chapter XVIII, "Mr. Fagin concluded by drawing a rather disagreeable picture of the discomforts of hanging"; "The gallows," Fagin says in chapter XLIII, "the gallows, my dear, is an ugly finger-post ... ," and it points throughout the book toward this immense moment.
Dickens closes with an image of a church and its graveyard, but the buildings that linger for us will probably be the slums through which Fagin slithered and Bill Sikes swaggered, the doors through which thieves entered and behind which boys were imprisoned, the scuffed wooden floors on which a death-bound dog, in his distress, tracked the blood of a woman who tried, at last, to be good, and who was punished by a man whose resolute criminality excited their author far more than the pure, innocent, helpless small boy who gave this book his name.
--FREDERICK BUSCH
PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION
"Some of the author's friends cried, 'Lookee, gentlemen, the man is a villain; but it is Nature for all that'; and the young critics of the age, the clerks, apprentices, etc., called it low, and fell a-groaning."--FIELDING.
THE GREATER PART OF THIS TALE WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN a magazine. When I completed it, and put it forth in its present form three years ago, I full expected it would be objected to on some very high moral grounds in some very high moral quarters. The result did not fail to prove the justice of my anticipations.
I embrace the present opportunity of saying a few words in explanation of my aim and object in its production. It is in some sort a duty with me to do so, in gratitude to those who sympathized with me and divined my purpose at the time, and who, perhaps, will not be sorry to have their impression confirmed under my own hand.
It is, it seems, a very coarse and shocking circumstance that some of the characters in these pages are chosen from the most criminal and degraded of London's population, that Sikes is a thief and Fagin a receiver of stolen goods, that the boys are pick-pockets and the girl is a prostitute.
I confess I have yet to learn that a lesson of the purest good may not be drawn from the vilest evil. I have always believed this to be a recognized and established truth, laid down by the greatest men the world has ever seen, constantly acted upon by the best and wisest natures, and confirmed by the reason and experience of every thinking mind. I saw no reason, when I wrote this book, why the very dregs of life, so long as their speech did not offend the ear, should not serve the purpose of a moral at least as well as its froth and cream. Nor did I doubt that there lay festering in Saint Giles' as good materials towards the truth as any flaunting in Saint James's.
In this spirit, when I wished to show in little Oliver the principle of Good surviving through every adverse circumstance and triumphing at last, and when I considered among what companions I could try him best--having regard to that kind of men into whose hands he would most naturally fall--I bethought myself of those who figure in these volumes. When I came to discuss the subject more maturely with myself, I saw many strong reasons for pursuing the course to which I was inclined. I had read of thieves by scores--seductive fellows (amiable for the most part), faultless in dress, plump in pocket, choice in horseflesh, bold in bearing, fortunate in gallantry, great at a song, a bottle, pack of cards o
r dice-box, and fit companions for the bravest. But I had never met (except in Hogarth) with the miserable reality. It appeared to me that to draw a knot of such associates in crime as really do exist; to paint them in all their deformity, in all their wretchedness, in all the squalid poverty of their lives; to show them as they really are, for ever skulking uneasily through the dirtiest paths of life, with the great, black, ghastly gallows closing up their prospects, turn them where they may--it appeared to me that to do this would be to attempt a something which was greatly needed and which would be a service to society. And therefore I did it as I best could.
In every book I know, where such characters are treated of at all, certain allurements and fascinations are thrown around them. Even in the Beggar's Opera, the thieves are represented as leading a life which is rather to be envied than otherwise; while Macheath, with all the captivations of command, and the devotion of the most beautiful girl and only pure character in the piece, is as much to be admired and emulated by weak beholders as any fine gentleman in a red coat who has purchased, as Voltaire says, the right to command a couple of thousand men or so and to affront death at their head. Johnson's question, whether any man will turn thief because Macheath is reprieved, seems to me beside the matter. I ask myself whether any man will be deterred from turning thief because of his being sentenced to death and because of the existence of Peachum and Lockit; and remembering the captain's roaring life, great appearance, vast success, and strong advantages, I feel assured that nobody having a bent that way will take any warning from him, or will see anything in the play but a very flowery and pleasant road, conducting an honourable ambition, in course of time, to Tyburn Tree.
In fact, Gay's witty satire on society had a general object which made him careless of example in this respect and gave him other, wider, and higher aims. The same may be said of Sir Edward Bulwer's admirable and most powerful novel of Paul Clifford, which cannot be fairly considered as having, or being intended to have, any bearing on this part of the subject, one way or other.
What manner of life is that which is described in these pages, as the everyday existence of a Thief? What charms has it for the young and ill-disposed, what allurements for the most jolter-headed of juveniles? Here are no canterings upon moonlit heaths, no merrymaking in the snuggest of all possible caverns, none of the attractions of dress, no embroidery, no lace, no jack-boots, no crimson coats and ruffles, none of the dash and freedom with which "the road" has been time out of mind invested. The cold, wet, shelterless midnight streets of London; the foul and frowsy dens, where vice is closely packed and lacks the room to turn; the haunts of hunger and disease, the shabby rags that scarcely hold together--where are the attractions of these things? Have they no lesson, and do they not whisper something beyond the little-regarded warning of a moral precept?
But there are people of so refined and delicate a nature that they cannot bear the contemplation of these horrors. Not that they turn instinctively from crime, but that criminal characters, to suit them, must be, like their meat, in delicate disguise. A Massaroni in green velvet is quite an enchanting creature, but a Sikes in fustian is unsupportable. A Mrs. Massaroni, being a lady in short petticoats and a fancy dress, is a thing to imitate in a tableaux and have in lithograph on pretty songs; but a Nancy, being a creature in a cotton gown and cheap shawl, is not to be thought of. It is wonderful how Virtue turns from dirty stockings, and how Vice, married to ribbons and a little gay attire, changes her name, as wedded ladies do, and becomes Romance.
Now, as the stem and plain truth, even in the dress of this (in novels) much exalted race, was a part of the purpose of this book, I will not, for these readers, abate one hole in the Dodger's coat or one scrap of curl-paper in the girl's dishevelled hair. I have no faith in the delicacy which cannot bear to look upon them. I have no desire to make proselytes among such people. I have no respect for their opinion, good or bad, do not covet their approval, and do not write for their amusement. I venture to say this without reserve; for I am not aware of any writer in our language having a respect for himself, or held in any respect by his posterity, who ever has descended to the taste of this fastidious class.
On the other hand, if I look for examples and for precedents, I find them in the noblest range of English literature: Fielding, Defoe, Goldsmith, Smollett, Richardson, Mackenzie--all these for wise purposes, and especially the two first, brought upon the scene the very scum and refuse of the land. Hogarth, the moralist, and censor of his age--in whose great works the time in which he lived and the characters of every time will never cease to be reflected--did the like, without the compromise of a hair's breadth, with a power and depth of thought which belonged to few men before him and will probably appertain to fewer still in time to come. Where does this giant stand now in the estimation of his countrymen? And yet, if I turn back to the days in which he or any of these men flourished, I find the same reproach levelled against them every one, each in his turn, by the insects of the hour, who raised their little hum and died and were forgotten.
Cervantes laughed Spain's chivalry away by showing Spain its impossible and wild absurdity. It was my attempt, in my humble and far-distant sphere, to dim the false glitter surrounding something which really did exist by showing it in its unattractive and repulsive truth. No less consulting my own taste than the manners of the age, I endeavoured, while I painted it in all its fallen and degraded aspects, to banish from the lips of the lowest character I introduced, any expression that could by possibility offend, and rather to lead to the unavoidable inference that its existence was of the most debased and vicious kind than to prove it elaborately by words and deeds. In the case of the girl in particular I kept this intention constantly in view. Whether it is apparent in the narrative, and how it is executed, I leave my readers to determine.
It has been observed of this girl that her devotion to the brutal housebreaker does not seem natural, and it has been objected to Sikes in the same breath--with some inconsistency, as I venture to think--that he is surely overdrawn, because in him there would appear to be none of those redeeming traits which are objected to as unnatural in his mistress. Of the latter objection I will merely say that I fear there are in the world some insensible and callous natures that do become, at last, utterly and irredeemably bad. But whether this be so or not, of one thing I am certain: that there are such men as Sikes, who, being closely followed through the same space of time and through the same current of circumstances, would not give, by one look or action of a moment, the faintest indication of a better nature. Whether every gentler human feeling is dead within such bosoms, or the proper chord to strike has rusted and is hard to find, I do not know; but that the fact is so, I am sure.
It is useless to discuss whether the conduct and character of the girl seems natural or unnatural, probable or improbable, right or wrong. It is true. Every man who has watched these melancholy shades of life knows it to be so. Suggested to my mind long ago--long before I dealt in fiction--by what I often saw and read of in actual life around me, I have for years tracked it through many profligate and noisome ways, and found it still the same. From the first introduction of that poor wretch to her laying her bloody head upon the robber's breast, there is not one word exaggerated or overwrought. It is emphatically God's truth, for it is the truth He leaves in such depraved and miserable breasts, the hope yet lingering behind, the last fair drop of water at the bottom of the dried-up weed-choked well. It involves the best and worst shades of our common nature, much of its ugliest hues and something of its most beautiful; it is a contradiction, an anomaly, an apparent impossibility, but it is a truth. I am glad to have had it doubted, for in that circumstance I find a sufficient assurance that it needed to be told.
DEVONSHIRE TERRACE
April 1841
PREFACE TO THE FIRST CHEAP EDITION
AT PAGE 267 OF THIS PRESENT EDITION OF OLIVER TWIST THERE is a description of "the filthiest, the strangest, the most extraordinary of the many localities
that are hidden in London." And the name of this place is Jacob's Island.
Eleven or twelve years have elapsed since the description was first published. I was as well convinced then as I am now, that nothing effectual can be done for the elevation of the poor in England until their dwelling-places are made decent and wholesome. I have always been convinced that this reform must precede all other Social Reforms; that it must prepare the way for Education, even for Religion; and that, without it, those classes of the people which increase the fastest must become so desperate, and be made so miserable, as to bear within themselves the certain seeds of ruin to the whole community.
The metropolis (of all places under heaven) being excluded from the provisions of the Public Health Act passed last year, a society has been formed called the Metropolitan Sanitary Association, with the view of remedying this grievous mistake. The association held its first public meeting at Freema son's Hall on Wednesday the sixth of February last, the Bishop of London presiding. It happened that this very place, Jacob's Island, had lately attracted the attention of the Board of Health, in consequence of its having been ravaged by cholera; and that the Bishop of London had in his hands the result of an inquiry under the Metropolitan Sewers Commission, showing, by way of proof of the cheapness of sanitary improvements, an estimate of the probable cost at which the houses in Jacob's Island could be rendered fit for human habitation--which cost, as stated, was about, a penny three farthings per week per house. The Bishop referred to this paper with the moderation and forbearance which pervaded all his observations, and did me the honour to mention that I had described Jacob's Island. When I subsequently made a few observations myself, I confessed that soft impeachment.
Now the vestry of Marylebone parish, meeting on the following Saturday, had the honour to be addressed by Sir Peter Laurie, a gentleman of infallible authority, of great innate modesty, and of a most sweet humanity. This remarkable alderman, as I am informed by The Observer newspaper, then and there delivered himself (I quote the passage without any correction) as follows: "Having touched upon the point of saving to the poor, he begged to illustrate it by reading for them the particulars of a survey that had been made in a locality called--'Jacob's Island'--(a laugh)--where, according to the surveyor, 1300 houses were erected on forty acres of ground. The surveyor asserted and laid down that each house could be supplied with a constant supply of pure water--secondly, that each house could be supplied with a sink--thirdly, a water-closet--fourthly, a drain--fifthly, a foundation drain--and, sixthly, the accommodation of a dust-bin (laughter), and all at the average rate of 13s. 4d. per week (oh, oh, and laughter).