ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS.
This book was originally conceived as an accompaniment to a television series of the same name. I was asked in 2008 by Basil Comely and Mary Sackville-West of the BBC if I would be interested in doing a series about books and I gave a tentative 'yes'. Basil and Mary assured me that we could develop something worthwhile for the programmes to be 'about' and that they would make sure I was all right on screen. They certainly did the former.
The initial idea was that the series should celebrate not novelists' lives but the books they had created; it was the suggestion of Janice Hadlow, the controller of BBC2, that we should talk not about novels but about individual characters. John Mullan of University College London started coming to meetings in a cafe in west London, where we discussed possible character types and individuals. The series was initiated by the then controller of BBC2, Roly Keating, and the commissioner for arts, Mark Bell. Mary had the toughest task as both point-person between many egos and as part-time medical officer in what sometimes resembled a casualty clearing station.
Originally, the four directors were Phil Cairney (The Hero), Kate Misrahi (The Lover), David Vincent (The Snob) and Adrian Sibley (The Villain). Unforeseen circumstances meant that David had to do the lion's share. This was not before Phil and I had had some adventures in Puerto Rico (Robinson Crusoe) and New York (John Self) or before Adrian and I had rendezvoused halfway up the Himalayas (Merrick). My thanks to all four directors, but especially to David Vincent, who showed heroic patience in dealing with a novice presenter. Judith Robson was the indefatigable editor.
The camera team was Justin Evans and Sam Al-Kadi. They were talented, hard-working and good company; we celebrated Justin's 40th birthday in Delhi and Sam's marriage in Shepherd's Bush. From Justin I learned a little of how television works, and from Sam I picked up some interesting new words.
The other people I would like to thank are: The production co-ordinator Sara Cameron, without whose good cheer and thermal underwear some of the freezing early starts would have been unbearable; assistant producer Caroline Walsh, who battled through temperatures of minus ten degrees, flu and unfair teasing; and researcher Charlotte Gittins, with apologies for leaving the sloe gin in her glove compartment.
Thanks also to assistant producers Lucy Heathcoat Amory and Bex Palmer; researchers Toby Bentley and Simon Lloyd; archive researchers Kathy Manners and Peter Scott; and to Patrick Acum, who was behind the camera when Justin was unavailable. Jacmel Dent and Sarah Baxter kept things real back at White City.
Many work experience volunteers came and went unpaid. I would particularly like to thank Anne Meadows, who had not only read all of Clarissa, but was full of ideas about Lovelace; and Ben Masters and Bridie Bischoff, who wrote background notes on the historical reception of the characters and will doubtless both go on to much greater things.
The others were: Amelia Aspden, Fionnuala Barrett, Eleanor Burton, Alexandra Carruthers, Stephanie Cross, Alexandra Dewdney, Roma Foulds, Tom Garvey, Madeleine Gillies, Tom Goble, Marianne Gray, Emma Harrison, Jane Harrison, Oli Hazzard, Sarah Hunt, Charlotte Kelly, Kathleen Keown, Alexandra Lewis, Zeljka Marosevic, Alexander Moss, Katherine Newbigging, Lydia Nicholas, Alex Nicole, Carina Persson, Eleanor Priestman, Emma Pritchard, Polly Randall, Emily Ryder, Laura Shacham, Nick Tanner, Hugh Trimble, Lizzie Webster, Kathrynne West, Florence Wilkinson, Sarah Williams and Lottie Young. I only hope the 'experience' was worthwhile for them.
I would like also to thank the following, who kindly gave their time to be interviewed: Monica Ali, Martin Amis, Simon Armitage, Melissa Benn, Bidisha, Alain de Botton, William Boyd, Joanna Briscoe, Michael Caines, John Carey, Jonathan Coe, Richard Dawkins, Omid Djalili, Helen Fielding, Aminatta Forna, Nick Frost, Bonnie Greer, Joanne Harris, Robert Harris, Ronald Harwood, John Hegarty, Zoe Heller, Charlie Higson, Alan Hollinghurst, John Hurt, Marina Hyde, P.D. James, Liz Jensen, Boris Johnson, Sadie Jones, Pratik Kanjilal, Brian Keenan, A.L. Kennedy, Hari Kunzru, Norman Lebrecht, Mike Leigh, Penelope Lively, Tim Lott, Blake Morrison, James Naughtie, Rowan Pelling, Adam Phillips, Tim Pigott-Smith, Ian Rankin, Ruth Rendell, Peggy Reynolds, Simon Schama, Matthew Scott, Elaine Showalter, Dan Stevens, Kate Summerscale, Matthew Sweet, Mark Tully, Jenny Uglow, Natasha Walter and Kate Williams.
In the preparation of this book, I would like to thank Gillon Aitken, my literary agent; Albert DePetrillo and Laura Higginson at BBC Books; and John Mullan, who made many helpful comments on the draft and spared me a couple of howlers the remainder, of course, being all my own work. Thanks also to my wife, Veronica, for editorial and other kindnesses.
I was encouraged to include the story of my first reactions to some of these novels, since the idea of how great books seem different to you at different ages was thought to be interesting; some readers may prefer to skip these bits. Since these acknowledgements have already gone on a bit and since the book refers back so often to student days, perhaps I can also take three lines to thank those teachers who, all those years ago, first helped me to appreciate books: Mr and Mrs Sexton; Anne Sanderson; Alec Annand, Michael Curtis, Michael Fox, Philip Letts; and Professor Derek Brewer and Dr John Harvey. And since self-indulgence has now won the day, I would also like to thank my much-missed parents my mother, who taught me how to read, then endured many lisping demonstrations of my new-found skill; and my father, who provided the books and the encouragement.
Finally, I would like to point out that the title of this book is not my fault. A high-up person at the BBC decreed that the series should be so called because this year's craze is for having the presenter's name in the title. My choice, and not just because it was my wife's idea, was for 'Novel People', and I hope it may be possible to reprint the book at some future date under that preferable title.
S.F. London, February 2011.
Footnotes.
15 What Henry James witheringly called 'the puerile dread of the grocer . . . which has sterilized a whole province of French literature'.
Charles Dickens.
OLIVER TWIST.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR.
Charles Dickens was born on 7 February 1812 in Landport in Portsmouth. His father was a clerk in the Navy Pay Office who often ended up in financial trouble. When Dickens was twelve years old he was sent to work in a shoe polish factory because his father had been imprisoned for debt. In 1833 he began to publish short stories and essays in newspapers and magazines. The serialisation of The Pickwick Papers, his first commercial success, began in 1836, the same year that he married Catherine Hogarth. The first chapters of Oliver Twist appeared in print in 1837 while The Pickwick Papers was still running. Many other novels followed and Dickens became a celebrity in America as well as Britain. He also set up and edited the journals Household Words (18509) and All the Year Round (185970). Charles Dickens died on 9 June 1870 leaving his last novel, The Mystery of Edwin Drood, unfinished. He is buried in Westminster Abbey.
ALSO BY CHARLES DICKENS.
The Pickwick Papers Nicholas Nickleby The Old Curiosity Shop Barnaby Rudge Martin Chuzzlewit A Christmas Carol Dombey and Son David Copperfield Bleak House Hard Times Little Dorrit A Tale of Two Cities Great Expectations Our Mutual Friend The Mystery of Edwin Drood LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
Oliver claimed by his affectionate Friends Oliver asking for more Oliver escapes being bound to a Sweep Oliver plucks up a Spirit Oliver introduced to the respectable old Gentleman Oliver amazed at the Dodger's mode of 'going to Work'
Oliver Recovering from Fever Oliver's Reception by Fagin and the Boys Master Bates explains a professional Technicality The Burglary Mr. Bumble and Mrs. Corney taking Tea Mr. Claypole as he appeared when his Master was out Oliver at Mrs. Maylie's Door Oliver waited on by Bow-Street Runners Monks and the Jew Mr. Bumble degraded in the Eyes of the Paupers The Evidence destroyed Mr. Fagin and his Pupils recovering Nancy The Jew and Morris both begin to understand each other The Meeting.
Sikes attempting to destroy his Dog.
The Last Chance.
Fagin in the Condemned Cell.
Rose Maylie and Oliver.
AUTHOR'S PREFACE (1867).
ONCE upon a time it was held to be a coarse and shocking circumstance, that some of the characters in these pages are chosen from the most criminal and degraded of London's population.
As I saw no reason, when I wrote this book, why the dregs of life (so long as their speech did not offend the ear) should not serve the purpose of a mortal, as well as its froth and cream, I made bold to believe that this same Once upon a time would not prove to be All-time or even a long time. I saw many strong reasons for pursuing my course. I had read of thieves by scores; seductive fellows (amiable for the most part), faultless in dress, plump in pocket, choice in horse-flesh, bold in bearing, fortunate in gallantry, great at a song, a bottle, pack of cards or 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 did exist; to paint them in all their deformity, in all their wretchedness, in all the squalid misery of their lives; to show them as they really were, for ever skulking uneasily through the dirtiest paths of life, with the great black ghastly gallows closing up their prospect, turn them where they might; it appeared to me that to do this, would be to attempt a something which was needed, and which would be a service to society. And I did it as I best could.
In every book I know, where such characters are treated of, 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 questions, 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 Macheath's 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 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 quite regardless of example in this respect, and gave him other and wider aims. The same may be said of Sir Edward Bulwer's admirable and powerful novel of Paul Clifford, which cannot be fairly considered as having, or as 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 on moonlit heaths, no merry-makings 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?
There are people, however, of so refined and delicate a nature, that they cannot bear the contemplation of such 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 an enchanting creature; but a Sikes in fustian is insupportable. A Mrs. Massaroni, being a lady in short petticoats and a fancy dress, is a thing to imitate in 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.
But as the stern truth, even in the dress of this (in novels) much exalted race, was a part of the purpose of this book, I did not, for these readers, abate one hole in the Dodger's coat, nor one scrap of curl-paper in Nancy's dishevelled hair. I had no faith in the delicacy which could not bear to look upon them. I had no desire to make proselytes among such people. I had no respect for their opinion, good or bad; did not covet their approval; and did not write for their amusement.
It has been observed of Nancy that her devotion to the brutal house-breaker 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 over-drawn, 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 remark, that I fear there are in the world some insensible and callous natures, that do become utterly and incurably bad. 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 current of circumstances, would not give, by the 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 pretend to know; but that the fact is as I state it, 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, must know it to be so. From the first introduction of that poor wretch, to her laying her bloodstained head upon the robber's breast, there is not a word exaggerated or over-wrought. It is emphatically God's truth, for it is the truth He leaves in such depraved and miserable breasts; the hope yet lingering there; the last fair drop of water at the bottom of the weed-choked well. It involves the best and worst shades of our 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 should find a sufficient assurance (if I wanted any) that it needed to be told.
In the year one thousand eight hundred and fifty, it was publicly declared in London by an amazing Alderman, that Jacob's Island did not exist, and never had existed. Jacob's Island continues to exist (like an ill-bred place as it is) in the year one thousand eight hundred and sixty-seven, though improved and much changed.
OLIVER TWIST;.
OR, THE.
PARISH BOY'S PROGRESS.
Oliver claimed by his Affectionate Friends
CHAPTER I.
Treats of the Place where Oliver Twist was Born, and of the Circumstances attending his Birth AMONG other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will assign no fictitious name, there is one anciently common to most towns, great or small: to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was born; on a day and date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business at all events; the item of mortality whose name is prefixed to the head of this chapter.
For a long time after it was ushered into this world of sorrow and trouble, by the parish surgeon, it remained a matter of considerable doubt whether the child would survive to bear any name at all; in which case it is somewhat more than probable that these memoirs would never have appeared; or, if they had, that being comprised within a couple of pages, they would have possessed the inestimable merit of being the most concise and faithful specimen of biography, extant in the literature of any age or country.
Although I am not disposed to maintain that the being born in a workhouse, is in itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance that can possibly befall a human being, I do mean to say that in this particular instance, it was the best thing for Oliver Twist that could by possibility have occurred. The fact is, that there was considerable difficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon himself the office of respiration,-a troublesome practice, but one which custom has rendered necessary to our easy existence; and for some time he lay gasping on a little flock mattress, rather unequally poised between this world and the next: the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter. Now, if, during this brief period, Oliver had been surrounded by careful grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and doctors of profound wisdom, he would most inevitably and indubitably have been killed in no time. There being nobody by, however, but a pauper old woman, who was rendered rather misty by an unwonted allowance of beer; and a parish surgeon who did such matters by contract; Oliver and Nature fought out the point between them. The result was, that, after a few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to advertise to the inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden having been imposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as could reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not been possessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longer space of time than three minutes and a quarter.
As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his lungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron bedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly from the pillow; and a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words, 'Let me see the child, and die.'
The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed's head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected of him: 'Oh, you must not talk about dying yet.'
'Lor bless her heart, no!' interposed the nurse, hastily depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction. 'Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had thirteen children of her own, and all on 'em dead except two, and them in the wurkus with me, she'll know better than to take on in that way, bless her dear heart! Think what it is to be a mother, there's a dear young lamb, do.'
Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother's prospects failed in producing its due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretched out her hand towards the child.
The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed wildly round; shuddered; fell back-and died. They chafed her breast, hands, and temples; but the blood had stopped for ever. They talked of hope and comfort. They had been strangers too long.
'It's all over, Mrs. Thingummy!' said the surgeon at last.
'Ah, poor dear, so it is!' said the nurse, picking up the cork of the green bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to take up the child. 'Poor dear!'
'You needn't mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse,' said the surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. 'It's very likely it will be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is.' He put on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the door, added, 'She was a good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?'
'She was brought here last night,' replied the old woman, 'by the overseer's order. She was found lying in the street. She had walked some distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she came from, or where she was going to, nobody knows.'
The surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left hand. 'The old story,' he said, shaking his head: 'no wedding-ring, I see. Ah! Good night!'
The medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and the nurse, having once more applied herself to the green bottle, sat down on a low chair before the fire, and proceeded to dress the infant.
What an excellent example of the power of dress, young Oliver Twist was! Wrapped in the blanket which had hitherto formed his only covering, he might have been the child of a nobleman or a beggar; it would have been hard for the haughtiest stranger to have assigned him his proper station in society. But now that he was enveloped in the old calico robes which had grown yellow in the same service, he was badged and ticketed, and fell into his place at once-a parish child-the orphan of a workhouse-the humble, half-starved drudge-to be cuffed and buffeted through the world-despised by all, and pitied by none.
Oliver cried lustily. If he could have known that he was an orphan, left to the tender mercies of churchwardens and overseers, perhaps he would have cried the louder.
CHAPTER II.
Treats of Oliver Twist's Growth, Education, and Board FOR the next eight or ten months, Oliver was the victim of a systematic course of treachery and deception. He was brought up by hand. The hungry and destitute situation of the infant orphan was duly reported by the workhouse authorities to the parish authorities. The parish authorities inquired with dignity of the workhouse authorities, whether there was no female then domiciled in 'the house' who was in a situation to impart to Oliver Twist, the consolation and nourishment of which he stood in need. The workhouse authorities replied with humility, that there was not. Upon this, the parish authorities magnanimously and humanely resolved, that Oliver should be 'farmed,' or, in other words, that he should be despatched to a branch-workhouse some three miles off, where twenty or thirty other juvenile offenders against the poor-laws, rolled about the floor all day, without the inconvenience of too much food or too much clothing, under the parental superintendence of an elderly female, who received the culprits at and for the consideration of sevenpence-halfpenny per small head per week. Sevenpence-halfpenny's worth per week is a good round diet for a child; a great deal may be got for sevenpencehalfpenny, quite enough to overload its stomach, and make it uncomfortable. The elderly female was a woman of wisdom and experience; she knew what was good for children; and she had a very accurate perception of what was good for herself. So, she appropriated the greater part of the weekly stipend to her own use, and consigned the rising parochial generation to even a shorter allowance than was originally provided for them. Thereby finding in the lowest depth a deeper still; and proving herself a very great experimental philosopher.
Everybody knows the story of another experimental philosopher who had a great theory about a horse being able to live without eating, and who demonstrated it so well, that he got his own horse down to a straw a day, and would unquestionably have rendered him a very spirited and rampacious animal on nothing at all, if he had not died, four-and-twenty hours before he was to have had his first comfortable bait of air. Unfortunately for the experimental philosophy of the female to whose protecting care Oliver Twist was delivered over, a similar result usually attended the operation of her system; for at the very moment when a child had contrived to exist upon the smallest possible portion of the weakest possible food, it did perversely happen in eight and a half cases out of ten, either that it sickened from want and cold, or fell into the fire from neglect, or got half-smothered by accident; in any one of which cases, the miserable little being was usually summoned into another world, and there gathered to the fathers it had never known in this.
Occasionally, when there was some more than usually interesting inquest upon a parish child who had been overlooked in turning up a bedstead, or inadvertently scalded to death when there happened to be a washing-though the latter accident was very scarce, anything approaching to a washing being of rare occurrence in the farm-the jury would take it into their heads to ask troublesome questions, or the parishioners would rebelliously affix their signatures to a remonstrance. But these impertinences were speedily checked by the evidence of the surgeon, and the testimony of the beadle; the former of whom had always opened the body and found nothing inside (which was very probable indeed), and the latter of whom invariably swore whatever the parish wanted; which was very self-devotional. Besides, the board made periodical pilgrimages to the farm, and always sent the beadle the day before, to say they were going. The children were neat and clean to behold, when they went; and what more would the people have!
It cannot be expected that this system of farming would produce any very extraordinary or luxuriant crop. Oliver Twist's ninth birth-day found him a pale thin child, somewhat diminutive in stature, and decidedly small in circumference. But nature or inheritance had implanted a good sturdy spirit in Oliver's breast. It had had plenty of room to expand, thanks to the spare diet of the establishment; and perhaps to this circumstance may be attributed his having any ninth birth-day at all. Be this as it may, however, it was his ninth birth-day; and he was keeping it in the coal-cellar with a select party of two other young gentlemen, who, after participating with him in a sound thrashing, had been locked up for atrociously presuming to be hungry, when Mrs. Mann, the good lady of the house, was unexpectedly startled by the apparition of Mr. Bumble, the beadle, striving to undo the wicket of the garden-gate.
'Goodness gracious! Is that you, Mr. Bumble, sir?' said Mrs. Mann, thrusting her head out of the window in well-affected ecstasies of joy. '(Susan, take Oliver and them two brats up stairs, and wash 'em directly.) My heart alive! Mr. Bumble, how glad I am to see you, sure-ly!'
Now, Mr. Bumble was a fat man, and a choleric; so, instead of responding to this open-hearted salutation in a kindred spirit, he gave the little wicket a tremendous shake, and then bestowed upon it a kick which could have emanated from no leg but a beadle's.
'Lor, only think,' said Mrs. Mann, running out,-for the three boys had been removed by this time,-'only think of that! That I should have forgotten that the gate was bolted on the inside, on account of them dear children! Walk in, sir; walk in, pray, Mr. Bumble, do, sir.'
Although this invitation was accompanied with a curtsey that might have softened the heart of a churchwarden, it by no means mollified the beadle.
'Do you think this respectful or proper conduct, Mrs. Mann,' inquired Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane, 'to keep the parish officers a waiting at your garden-gate, when they come here upon porochial business connected with the porochial orphans? Are you aweer, Mrs. Mann, that you are, as I may say, a porochial delegate, and a stipendiary?'
'I'm sure, Mr. Bumble, that I was only a telling one or two of the dear children as is so fond of you, that it was you a coming,' replied Mrs. Mann with great humility.
Mr. Bumble had a great idea of his oratorical powers and his importance. He had displayed the one, and vindicated the other. He relaxed.
'Well, well, Mrs. Mann,' he replied in a calmer tone; 'it may be as you say; it may be. Lead the way in, Mrs. Mann, for I come on business, and have something to say.'
Mrs. Mann ushered the beadle into a small parlour with a brick floor; placed a seat for him; and officiously deposited his cocked hat and cane on the table before him. Mr. Bumble wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his walk had engendered, glanced complacently at the cocked hat, and smiled. Yes, he smiled. Beadles are but men; and Mr. Bumble smiled.
'Now don't you be offended at what I'm a going to say,' observed Mrs. Mann, with captivating sweetness. 'You've had a long walk, you know, or I wouldn't mention it. Now, will you take a little drop of somethink, Mr. Bumble?'
'Not a drop. Not a drop,' said Mr. Bumble, waving his right hand in a dignified, but placid manner.