At one time it was considered rude and obscene that I chose some of the heroes of this story from among the most criminal and degraded representatives of the London population.
Seeing no reason, at the time of writing this book, why the dregs of society (since their speech does not offend the ear) cannot serve moral purposes to the same extent as its foam and cream, I dared to believe that this is “its time.” may not mean "at all times" or even "for a long time." I had good reasons for choosing this path. I've read dozens of books about thieves: nice guys (mostly kind), impeccably dressed, a tight wallet, horse experts, very self-confident, successful in gallant intrigue, masters of singing songs, drinking a bottle, playing cards or dice - a wonderful company for the most worthy. But I have never encountered a pitiful reality anywhere (with the exception of Hogarth). It seemed to me that to depict real members of a criminal gang, to draw them in all their ugliness, with all their vileness, to show their wretched, miserable life, to show them as they really are - they are always sneaking, overcome with anxiety, through the dirtiest the paths of life, and wherever they look, a big black scary gallows looms before them - it seemed to me that to depict this means to try to do what is necessary and what will serve society. And I did it to the best of my ability.
In all the books I know where such types are depicted, they always somehow seduce and seduce. Even in The Beggar's Opera, the life of thieves is depicted in such a way that, perhaps, one can envy it: Captain Macheath, surrounded by a seductive aura of power and having won the devoted love of a beautiful girl, the only impeccable heroine in the play, evokes the same admiration and desire to imitate him among weak-willed spectators , like any courteous gentleman in a red uniform, who, according to Voltaire, bought the right to command two or three thousand people and is so brave that he does not fear for their lives. Johnson's question whether anyone will become a thief because Macheath's death sentence has been overturned seems to me irrelevant. I ask myself whether the fact that Macheath was sentenced to death and that Peachum and Lokit exist will prevent anyone from becoming a thief. And, remembering the stormy life of the captain, his magnificent appearance, enormous success and great virtues, I feel confident that not a single person with similar inclinations will be served by the captain as a warning and not a single person will see in this play anything other than a road strewn with flowers, even though over time it brings the venerable ambitious man to the gallows.
In fact, Gray ridiculed society as a whole in his witty satire and, occupied with more important issues, did not care about the impression his hero would make. The same can be said of Sir Edward Bulwer's excellent, powerful novel, Paul Clifford, which cannot in any way be considered a work relevant to the topic I have touched on; The author himself did not set himself such a task.
What is the life depicted on these pages, the daily life of the Thief? What is its charm for young people with bad inclinations, what are its temptations for the most stupid youths? There are no galloping races across the heather steppe, bathed in moonlight, no merry feasts in a cozy cave, no seductive outfits, no braid, no lace, no boots, no crimson vests and sleeves, there is nothing of that bragging and that freedom with which Since time immemorial, the “high road” has been embellished. Cold, gray, London streets at night, where you can’t find shelter; dirty and smelly lairs are the abode of all vices; dens of hunger and disease; pathetic rags that are about to crumble - what's seductive about that?
However, some people are so naturally refined and so delicate that they are unable to contemplate such horrors. They do not instinctively turn away from crime, no, but the criminal, in order to please them, must be, like food, served with delicate seasoning. Some Macaroni in green velvet is a delightful creation, but this one in a cotton shirt is unbearable! Some Mrs. Macaroni - a person in a short skirt and fancy dress - deserves to be depicted in living pictures and in lithographs that adorn popular songs; Well, Nancy - a creature in a paper dress and a cheap shawl - is unacceptable! It is amazing how Virtue turns away from dirty stockings and how Vice, combined with ribbons and bright clothes, changes its name, like married women, and becomes Romance.
But one of the tasks of this book is to show the harsh truth, even when it appears in the guise of those people who are so extolled in novels, and therefore I have not hidden from my readers a single hole in the Dodger's frock coat, not a single curl-paper in Nancy's disheveled hair. I had no faith at all in the delicacy of those who were unable to contemplate them. I did not have the slightest desire to win supporters among such people. I did not respect their opinions, good or bad, did not seek their approval, and did not write for their amusement.
It was said about Nancy that her devoted love for the ferocious robber seemed unnatural. And at the same time they objected to Sykes, rather inconsistently, I dare say, by arguing that the colors were thickened, because there was not a trace in him of those redeeming qualities that were objected to as unnatural in his mistress. In response to the last objection, I will only note that, as I fear, there are still such insensitive and heartless natures in the world who are completely and hopelessly corrupted. Be that as it may, I am sure of one thing: people like Sikes exist, and if you closely follow them over the same period of time and under the same circumstances as depicted in the novel, they will not be found in any of their actions not the slightest sign of good feelings. Either every softer human feeling in them has died, or the string that should have been touched has rusted and is difficult to find - I do not presume to judge this, but I am sure that this is the case.
At one time it was considered rude and obscene that I chose some of the heroes of this story from among the most criminal and degraded representatives of the London population.
Seeing no reason, at the time of writing this book, why the dregs of society (since their speech does not offend the ear) cannot serve moral purposes to the same extent as its foam and cream, I dared to believe that this is “its time.” may not mean "at all times" or even "for a long time." I had good reasons for choosing this path. I've read dozens of books about thieves: nice guys (mostly kind), impeccably dressed, a tight wallet, horse experts, very self-confident, successful in gallant intrigue, masters of singing songs, drinking a bottle, playing cards or dice - a wonderful company for the most worthy. But I have never encountered a pitiful reality anywhere (with the exception of Hogarth). It seemed to me that to depict real members of a criminal gang, to draw them in all their ugliness, with all their vileness, to show their wretched, miserable life, to show them as they really are - they are always sneaking, overcome with anxiety, through the dirtiest paths of life, and wherever they looked, a big black scary gallows loomed before them - it seemed to me that this was necessary and that it would serve society. And I did it to the best of my ability.
In all the books I know where such types are depicted, they always somehow seduce and seduce. Even in The Beggar's Opera, the life of thieves is depicted in such a way that, perhaps, one can envy it: Captain Macheath, surrounded by a seductive aura of power and having won the devoted love of a beautiful girl, the only impeccable heroine in the play, evokes the same admiration and desire to imitate him among weak-willed spectators , like any courteous gentleman in a red uniform, who, according to Voltaire, bought the right to command two or three thousand people and is so brave that he does not fear for their lives. Johnson's question whether anyone will become a thief because Macheath's death sentence has been overturned seems to me irrelevant. I ask myself whether the fact that Macheath was sentenced to death and that Peachum and Lokit exist will prevent anyone from becoming a thief. And, remembering the stormy life of the captain, his magnificent appearance, enormous success and great virtues, I feel confident that not a single person with similar inclinations will be served by the captain as a warning and not a single person will see in this play anything other than a road strewn with flowers, even though over time it brings the venerable ambitious man to the gallows.
In fact, Gay ridiculed society as a whole in his witty satire and, occupied with more important issues, did not care about the impression his hero would make. The same can be said about Sir Edward Bulwer's excellent, powerful novel "Paul Clifford", which cannot in any way be considered a work related to the topic I have touched upon; the author himself did not set himself such a task.
What is the life depicted on these pages, the daily life of a thief? What is its charm for young people with bad inclinations, what are its temptations for the most stupid youths? There are no galloping races across the heather steppe, bathed in moonlight, no merry feasts in a cozy cave, no seductive outfits, no braid, no lace, no boots, no crimson vests and sleeves, there is nothing of that bragging and that freedom with which Since time immemorial, the “high road” has been embellished.
Cold, gray, London streets at night, where you can’t find shelter; dirty and smelly lairs are the abode of all vices; dens of hunger and disease; miserable rags that are about to crumble - what’s seductive about that?
However, some people are so naturally refined and so delicate that they are unable to contemplate such horrors. They do not instinctively turn away from crime, no, but the criminal, in order to please them, must be, like food, served with delicate seasoning. Some Macaroni in green velvet is a delightful creature, but Sykes in a cotton shirt is unbearable! Some Mrs. Macaroni - a person in a short skirt and a fancy dress - deserves to be depicted in living pictures and in lithographs that adorn popular songs; Well, Nancy - a creature in a paper dress and a cheap shawl - is unacceptable! It is amazing how Virtue turns away from dirty stockings and how Vice, combined with ribbons and bright clothes, changes its name, like married women, and becomes Romance.
But one of the tasks of this book is to show the harsh truth, even when it appears in the guise of those people who are so extolled in novels, and therefore I have not hidden from my readers a single hole in the Dodger's frock coat, not a single curl-paper in Nancy's disheveled hair. I had no faith at all in the delicacy of those who were unable to contemplate them. I had not the slightest desire to win supporters among such people. I did not respect their opinions, good or bad, did not seek their approval, and did not write for their amusement.
It was said about Nancy that her devoted love for the ferocious robber seemed unnatural. And at the same time they objected to Sykes, rather inconsistently, I dare say, by arguing that the colors were thickened, because there was not a trace in him of those redeeming qualities that were objected to as unnatural in his mistress. In response to the last objection, I will only note that, as I fear, there are still such insensitive and heartless natures in the world who are completely and hopelessly corrupted. Be that as it may, I am sure of one thing: people like Sikes exist, and if you closely follow them over the same period of time and under the same circumstances as depicted in the novel, they will not be found in any of their actions not the slightest sign of good feelings. Either every softer human feeling in them has died, or the string that should have been touched has rusted and is difficult to find - I do not presume to judge this, but I am sure that this is the case.
It is useless to argue about whether a girl’s behavior and character are natural or unnatural, possible or unthinkable, correct or not. They are the truth itself. Anyone who has observed these sad shadows of life should know this. From the first appearance of this pitiful unfortunate girl to the way she lays her bloody head on the chest of the robber, there is not the slightest exaggeration or exaggeration. This is holy truth, for God leaves this truth in the souls of the depraved and unfortunate; hope still smolders within them; the last clean drop of water at the bottom of a well overgrown with mud. It contains both the best and worst sides of our nature - many of its ugliest properties, but there are also the most beautiful ones; it is a contradiction, an anomaly, seemingly impossible, but it is the truth. I am glad that they doubted it, for if I had needed confirmation that this truth needed to be told, this last circumstance would have inspired this confidence in me.
In 1850, one eccentric alderman publicly declared in London that there was no Jacob’s Island and there never had been. But even in 1867, Jacob’s Island (still an unenviable place) continues to exist, although it has changed significantly for the better.
Chapter I
tells the story of the place where Oliver Twist was born and the circumstances surrounding his birth
Among the public buildings in a certain city, which for many reasons it would be prudent not to name and to which I will not give any fictitious name, there is a building that has long been found in almost all cities, large and small, namely, the workhouse. And in this workhouse was born - I need not trouble myself to indicate the day and date, since it has no meaning to the reader, at least at this stage of the story - was born the mortal whose name precedes the beginning of this chapter.
When the parish doctor introduced him into this world of sorrow and sorrow, for a long time it seemed very doubtful whether the child would survive to receive any name; in all likelihood, these memoirs would never have been published, and if they had been, they would have taken no more than two or three pages and, thanks to this invaluable quality, would have been the most concise and truthful example of a biography of all those preserved in the literature of any century or any countries.
Although I am not inclined to say that being born in a workhouse is in itself the happiest and most enviable fate that can fall to the lot of a person, yet I believe that, under the circumstances, it was the best for Oliver Twist. Because it was very difficult to get Oliver Twist to take care of his breathing, and this is a troublesome task, although custom has made it necessary for our painless existence. For some time he lay panting on the woolen mattress, in a precarious balance between this world and the next, and leaning decisively in favor of the latter. If during this short period of time Oliver had been surrounded by caring grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses and wise doctors, he would inevitably and undoubtedly have been ruined. But since there was no one nearby except an old beggar woman, whose head was clouded from an unusual portion of beer, and the parish doctor, who was fulfilling his duties under the contract, Oliver and Nature together won the battle. The result was that Oliver, after a short struggle, sighed, sneezed, and announced to the inmates of the workhouse the new burden that lay upon the parish, uttering as loud a cry as could have been expected from a male child who, three and a quarter minutes ago, had received that very useful gift of a voice. .
As soon as Oliver discovered this first evidence of the proper and free activity of his lungs, the patchwork blanket, carelessly thrown on the iron bed, began to stir, the pale face of the young woman rose from the pillow, and a weak voice indistinctly said:
“Let me look at the child and die.”
The doctor sat by the fireplace, warming and rubbing his palms. When the young woman spoke, he stood up and, going to the head of the room, said more affectionately than one would have expected from him:
- Well, it’s too early for you to talk about death!
- Of course, God forbid! - the nurse intervened, hastily pocketing a green bottle, the contents of which she was savoring with obvious pleasure in the corner of the room. - God forbid! When she has lived as long as I have lived, sir, and has given birth to thirteen children, and two of them will remain alive, and they will be with her in the workhouse, then she will come to her senses and will not take everything to heart! .. Think, dear, about what it means to be a mother! What a cute baby you have!
Apparently this comforting prospect of motherhood did not make the proper impression. The patient shook her head and extended her hand to the child.
The doctor handed him into her arms. She passionately pressed her cold, pale lips to his forehead, ran her hand over his face, looked around wildly, shuddered, leaned back... and died. They rubbed her chest, arms and temples, but her heart stopped forever. They said something about hope and reassurance. But she had not known this for a long time.
“It’s all over, Mrs. Thingamy!” - the doctor finally said.
- Yes, it's over. Oh, poor thing! - confirmed the nurse, picking up the cap from a green bottle that had fallen on the pillow as she bent down to pick up the child. - Poor thing!
“She was brought here last night,” answered the old woman, “by order of the warden.” She was found lying on the street. She came from afar, her shoes were completely worn out, but no one knows where she came from or where she was going.
The doctor leaned towards the deceased and raised her left hand.
“Old story,” he said, shaking his head. - There is no wedding ring... Well, good night!
The worthy physician went to dinner, and the nurse, taking another sip of the green bottle, sat down on a low chair by the fireplace and began to dress the baby.
What an excellent proof of the power of the garment was young Oliver Twist! Wrapped in a blanket, which had hitherto been his only covering, he could be the son of a nobleman and the son of a beggar; The most well-born person would hardly be able to determine his proper place in society. But now, when he was dressed in an old calico shirt, yellowed with time, he was marked and labeled and immediately took his place - a parish child, a workhouse orphan, a humble hungry poor man, passing his life under a hail of blows and slaps, despised everyone and not meeting pity anywhere.
Oliver screamed loudly. If he could have known that he was an orphan, left in the merciful care of churchwardens and overseers, perhaps he would have screamed even louder.
Chapter II
tells how Oliver Twist grew up, was brought up and was fed
For the next eight or ten months Oliver was the victim of a system of treachery and deceit. He was fed from a horn. The workhouse authorities duly reported the hungry little orphan, deprived of the basic necessities, to the parish authorities. The parish authorities dutifully asked the workhouse authorities if there was any female person living in the house who could provide Oliver Twist with the comfort and nourishment that was so necessary for him. To this the workhouse authorities replied that there was no such person. The parish authorities then generously and humanely decided that Oliver should be placed "on the farm," or, in other words, taken to a section of the workhouse, some three miles distant, where from twenty to thirty other youthful offenders of the poor law were swarming about the whole days on the floor, without suffering from excess food or clothing, under the maternal supervision of an elderly lady, who took in these criminals for seven and a half pence per head. Seven and a half pence a week is not a bad sum to support a child; a good deal can be purchased for seven and a halfpence—quite enough to fill the stomach and cause unpleasant consequences. The elderly female person was an intelligent and experienced person - she knew what? benefits children. And she understood perfectly what was good for herself. Therefore, she kept most of the weekly stipend for herself, and gave the younger parish generation a significantly smaller share than the one that was assigned to them. In other words, she discovered even greater depths in the bottomless depths, revealing herself to be a great philosopher.
Everyone knows the story of another philosopher, who conceived the famous theory that a horse can exist without food, and proved it so successfully that he reduced the daily ration of food received by his own horse to one straw; undoubtedly, he would have made her an extremely hot and frisky animal, if she had not fallen twenty-four hours before the day when she was to go on an excellent portion of air. Unfortunately for the experimental philosophy of the woman to whose care and patronage Oliver Twist was entrusted, the same results were usually produced by the application of her system; because at the very moment when a child learned to maintain life within himself with an insignificant portion of the most unnutritious food, by a twist of fate, in eight and a half cases out of ten, he either fell ill from hunger and cold, or through an oversight fell into the fire, or died from suffocation. In any of these cases, the unfortunate little one went to another world in order to unite there with his parents, whom he did not know in this one.
Sometimes, when a particularly strict investigation was carried out about a parish child who had been overlooked and knocked over his bed, or who had been unintentionally scalded to death while washing clothes - however, the latter did not happen often, because anything even remotely resembling washing was rare event on the farm - the jury sometimes thought of asking unpleasant questions, and the parishioners were indignant and signed a protest. But these daring speeches were immediately stopped at the root after the testimony of the doctor and the testimony of the beadle; the first always opened the corpse and found nothing in it - this was extremely plausible, and the second invariably swore under oath everything that the parish wanted - this was extremely pious. In addition, the council members visited the farm regularly and always sent a beadle the day before to announce their arrival. When they arrived, the children were nice and neat, and who could ask for more!
Such a system of education on the farm cannot be expected to produce any extraordinary or rich harvest. And on the day that Oliver Twist turned nine years old, he was a pale, stunted child, short and undoubtedly skinny. But nature planted good seeds in Oliver's chest, and they developed in freedom, which was greatly facilitated by the meager diet adopted in the institution. And perhaps it was to this circumstance that Oliver was obliged to see the day when he was nine years old.
Be that as it may, it was his birthday, and he spent it in the coal-cellar - in the select company of two young gentlemen, who, having shared with him a thorough flogging, were locked up for impudently daring to say that they are hungry - when suddenly Mrs. Mann, the nice lady in charge of this establishment, was shocked by the sudden appearance of Mr. Bumble, the beadle, who was trying to open the gate at the garden gate.
- Lord have mercy! Is that you, Mr. Bumble? - Mrs. Mann exclaimed, sticking her head out of the window and skillfully pretending to be extremely happy. - (Susan, bring Oliver and those two boys upstairs and wash them right now!) Oh, my God! Mr. Bumble, how glad I am to see you!
Mr. Bumble was a portly and irritable man; Instead of properly responding to this "sincere" greeting, he shook the gate desperately, and then treated her with such a kick as could only be expected from a beadle's foot.
- Oh my god! cried Mrs. Mann, running out of the house, for the three boys had by that time been brought upstairs. - Just think about it! How could I forget that because of our lovely guys the gate is locked from the inside! Come in, sir, please come in, Mr. Bumble, come in, sir!
Although this invitation was accompanied by a curtsy that might have touched the heart of the churchwarden, it did not at all soften the beadle.
“Do you think it respectful or decent, Mrs. Mann,” inquired Mr. Bumble, clutching his cane, “to make parish officials wait at the garden gate when they come here on parish business in connection with parish orphans?” Do you know, Mrs. Mann, that you are, so to speak, an elected official of the parish and receive a salary?
“Really, Mr. Bumble, I only told some of our dear children, who love you so much, that it was you who came,” answered Mrs. Mann with great humility.
Mr. Bumble had a high opinion of his ability as an orator and of his importance. He showed the first and confirmed the second. He softened.
“Okay, Mrs. Mann,” he replied in a calmer tone, “perhaps so.” Let's go into the house, Mrs. Mann. I came on business and have something to tell you.
Mrs. Mann led the beadle into a small brick-floored sitting room, handed him a chair, and obligingly placed his cocked hat and cane on the table in front of him. Mr. Bumble wiped the sweat from his brow from his walk, glanced smugly at his cocked hat and smiled. Yes, he smiled. Beadles are people, after all, and Mr. Bumble smiled.
“Now don’t be offended by what I tell you,” said Mrs. Mann with charming politeness. “You took, you know, a long walk, otherwise I wouldn’t mention it.” Mr. Bumble, would you like to have a drop?..
- Not a bit! Not a bit! said Mr. Bumble, waving his right hand in a dignified but good-natured manner.
“I think we can still have a drink,” said Mrs. Mann, noting to herself the tone of refusal and the gesture that accompanied it. - One drop, a little cold water and a piece of sugar.
Mr. Bumble cleared his throat.
“Just one drop,” Mrs. Mann urged.
- A drop of what exactly? - inquired the beadle.
“The very thing I am obliged to keep in the house for the dear little ones to add to Daffy’s elixir when they are unwell, Mr. Bumble,” answered Mrs. Mann, opening the cupboard and taking out a bottle and glass. - This is gin. I don't want to deceive you, Mr. Bumble. This is gin.
“Are you giving the children Daffy, Mrs. Mann?” – Bumble asked, following with his eyes the interesting procedure for preparing the mixture.
“God bless them, I do, although it costs a lot,” answered the teacher. “You know, sir, I can’t see them suffering in front of my eyes.”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Bumble approvingly, “you can’t.” You are a kind woman, Mrs. Mann. – She put the glass on the table. “I will take the first opportunity to report this to the council, Mrs. Mann.” – He pulled the glass towards him. “You have maternal feelings, Mrs. Mann.” “He mixed the gin and water. “I... I’ll be happy to drink to your health, Mrs. Mann.”
The novel tells about a little boy who had to endure many injustices and grief in his life. Oliver has been tempted many times. Besides, he could always choose the underworld to survive. But in the end, he was able to survive all the difficulties. And yet remain in this dirty world - a pure and innocent child.
The novel teaches us to always remain pure and innocent among all bad and criminal things.
Oliver Twist is a little boy who was born in a workhouse because his mother died just giving birth to him. Therefore, he was an orphan who knew neither mother nor father. That is why he stayed to live in this house. Never in his life had this boy seen affection or heard kind words from adults. Everyone around was angry, hateful and cruel. He was often offended and beaten, because he was small and therefore defenseless. That is why he lived a very bad life all these nine years. The boy never smiled, because there were only guards around who were cruel and angry. All these people who met along the boy’s difficult path were selfish, greedy and incredibly evil.
Soon the boy, who had grown up a little, decided to apprentice him to an undertaker. And even there the boy picked up a lot of evil and grief from the people around him. It is there that Oliver meets another boy who is older than him, and therefore he is arrogant and angry. This is Noe Claypole, who simply grew fat from his laziness and cruelty. There is also a maid who is madly in love with Noe. That's why she always gave the best pieces of food to her beloved. And he used it well. It was this Noe, who was also a shelter child, who only added to the grief towards little Oliver Twist. But at first Oliver endures everything, since there is nothing else left for him. But one day, when Oliver simply couldn’t stand it anymore, he simply got angry and simply spanked Noe. This outraged everyone who found out about it, and therefore the little boy, who was made guilty, had it even worse. Since he was severely punished, Oliver decided to run away and did so.
Oliver wanders, looking for a way - to London to change something. It is on the way that Oliver meets a boy who is about Twist's age, and therefore he decides to help the defenseless boy of the same age. And this boy, whose name is Jack Dawkins, shares his food with Oliver, and offers to give him a place to sleep in the big city of London. It is there that Jack Dawkins takes him, where he gives him lodging for the night and also food. In general, he brought Oliver Twist to the lair of the most inveterate criminal - a Jew who led all the petty thieves, and even murderers, if necessary.
This Jew was very cunning and evil, but he knew how to hide everything and pretend, if necessary, to be very flattering and kind. This is probably why he misled the little boy, who knew nothing about such a life, and also did not know love and tenderness. Therefore, he remains in this house, and after some time he is forced to work for them against his will. Oliver already understands that he has found himself in the most terrible lair, where he will certainly not be able to remain a pure and unsullied boy. But he can’t do anything, because, as it seems to him, there is no way out. Once, he gets caught, although he does not steal anything, but is simply present unwillingly during the thefts of his little peers.
It was then that he was captured and they wanted to put him in prison. But in court they were able to acquit him, and he was released. Oliver falls into the hands of Mr. Brunlow. There he is very sick, but they look after him and just love him. The boy is very good and smart, and Mr. Brunlow decides to foster him. In addition, in the room, the hall, there is a porter of a beautiful woman, and Oliver looks very much like her. This is what makes the rich gentleman think that the boy is the son of this woman, who, alas, is dead.
But soon Oliver is kidnapped, as the Jew Fagin finds out where he lives. After all, this terrible man wants to make Oliver a thief and a criminal at any cost. And then Fagin plans to rob a rich house, and Oliver is suitable for the little thief, since he is small and thin. But Oliver disrupts the operation and is seriously wounded with a pistol, as he specifically raises the alarm in the house. The criminals pull him out, but since he is wounded and they are all being chased, he throws him into a ditch, where those people from a rich house find him. They take care of him, and Oliver remains to live there. But Fagin is very worried, as well as all his faithful friends, because they are afraid that Oliver will tell about them and give them away. That’s why they continue to look for him.
Soon it is Monks, one of the criminals who is actually Oliver's older half-brother, who finds out his origins and has evidence for this. So they are going to pull off a scam where it is very important to have a boy. Because through him you can get a lot of money, because the boy’s inheritance is very large. But all plans collapse, as a murder happens, through which some go to prison, and some die.
Picture or drawing of The Adventures of Oliver Twist
The story is narrated by the boy Vasya. His dad is a rich and respected judge and the family lives well. But the boy does not have a mother, since she died. Because of this, it cannot be said that Vasya is a happy child. His father changed a lot after his wife died
In his comedy, Menander plays out the unusual story of a married couple from Athens, all of which takes place in their home. The head of the family, a young and wealthy man named Kharisei
PREFACE
At one time it was considered rude and obscene that I chose some heroes
this story from among the most criminal and degraded
representatives of the London population.
Seeing no reason, at the time of writing this book, why the scum
societies (since their speech does not offend the ears) cannot serve the purposes
moral in the same measure as its foam and cream - I dared to believe that it
"in due time" may not mean "at all times" or even "for a long time"
time." I had good reasons for choosing this path. I read dozens
books about thieves: nice guys (mostly kind), dressed
impeccably, wallet tightly stuffed, horse experts, behave very
self-confident, successful in gallant intrigues, masters of singing songs, drinking
bottle, play cards or dice - a wonderful company for the most
worthy. But I have never met anywhere (except Hogarth *) with a pitiful
reality. It seemed to me that depicting real members of a criminal
gangs, to draw them in all their ugliness, with all their vileness, to show
their wretched, beggarly life, to show them as they really are, -
they always sneak, overcome with anxiety, along the dirtiest paths of life, and
wherever they look, a big black scary thing looms before them
gallows, - it seemed to me that to depict this means to try to do something
what is necessary and what will serve society. And I did it to the best of my ability
strength
In all the books I know where similar types are depicted, they are always
something seduces and seduces. Even in "The Beggar's Opera" * the life of thieves
depicted in such a way that, perhaps, one can envy her: Captain Macheath,
surrounded by a seductive aura of power and won devoted love
the most beautiful girl, the only flawless heroine in the play, evokes
weak-willed spectators have the same admiration and desire to imitate him as
any courteous gentleman in a red uniform who, in the words of
Voltaire, bought the right to command two or three thousand people and is so brave,
that he is not afraid for their lives. Johnson's question, will anyone become a thief,
because Macheath's death sentence was overturned, it seems to me not
relevant. I wonder if it would stop someone from becoming a thief
the fact that Macheath was sentenced to death and that Peachum exist
and Lokit. And, remembering the captain’s stormy life, his magnificent appearance,
enormous success and great virtues, I feel confident that no one
the captain would not serve a person with similar inclinations as a warning and
not a single person will see in this play anything other than strewn with flowers
road, although over time it leads the venerable ambitious man to
gallows
At one time it was considered rude and obscene that I chose some of the heroes of this story from among the most criminal and degraded representatives of the London population.
Seeing no reason, at the time of writing this book, why the dregs of society (since their speech does not offend the ear) cannot serve moral purposes to the same extent as its foam and cream, I dared to believe that this is “its time.” may not mean "at all times" or even "for a long time." I had good reasons for choosing this path. I've read dozens of books about thieves: nice guys (mostly kind), impeccably dressed, a tight wallet, horse experts, very self-confident, successful in gallant intrigue, masters of singing songs, drinking a bottle, playing cards or dice - a wonderful company for the most worthy. But I have never encountered a pitiful reality anywhere (with the exception of Hogarth). It seemed to me that to depict real members of a criminal gang, to draw them in all their ugliness, with all their vileness, to show their wretched, miserable life, to show them as they really are - they are always sneaking, overcome with anxiety, through the dirtiest paths of life, and wherever they looked, a big black scary gallows loomed before them - it seemed to me that this was necessary and that it would serve society. And I did it to the best of my ability.
In all the books I know where such types are depicted, they always somehow seduce and seduce. Even in The Beggar's Opera, the life of thieves is depicted in such a way that, perhaps, one can envy it: Captain Macheath, surrounded by a seductive aura of power and having won the devoted love of a beautiful girl, the only impeccable heroine in the play, evokes the same admiration and desire to imitate him among weak-willed spectators , like any courteous gentleman in a red uniform, who, according to Voltaire, bought the right to command two or three thousand people and is so brave that he does not fear for their lives. Johnson's question whether anyone will become a thief because Macheath's death sentence has been overturned seems to me irrelevant. I ask myself whether the fact that Macheath was sentenced to death and that Peachum and Lokit exist will prevent anyone from becoming a thief. And, remembering the stormy life of the captain, his magnificent appearance, enormous success and great virtues, I feel confident that not a single person with similar inclinations will be served by the captain as a warning and not a single person will see in this play anything other than a road strewn with flowers, even though over time it brings the venerable ambitious man to the gallows.
In fact, Gay ridiculed society as a whole in his witty satire and, occupied with more important issues, did not care about the impression his hero would make. The same can be said about Sir Edward Bulwer's excellent, powerful novel "Paul Clifford", which cannot in any way be considered a work related to the topic I have touched upon; the author himself did not set himself such a task.
What is the life depicted on these pages, the daily life of a thief? What is its charm for young people with bad inclinations, what are its temptations for the most stupid youths? There are no galloping races across the heather steppe, bathed in moonlight, no merry feasts in a cozy cave, no seductive outfits, no braid, no lace, no boots, no crimson vests and sleeves, there is nothing of that bragging and that freedom with which Since time immemorial, the “high road” has been embellished. Cold, gray, London streets at night, where you can’t find shelter; dirty and smelly lairs are the abode of all vices; dens of hunger and disease; miserable rags that are about to crumble - what’s seductive about that?
However, some people are so naturally refined and so delicate that they are unable to contemplate such horrors. They do not instinctively turn away from crime, no, but the criminal, in order to please them, must be, like food, served with delicate seasoning. Some Macaroni in green velvet is a delightful creature, but Sykes in a cotton shirt is unbearable! Some Mrs. Macaroni - a person in a short skirt and a fancy dress - deserves to be depicted in living pictures and in lithographs that adorn popular songs; Well, Nancy - a creature in a paper dress and a cheap shawl - is unacceptable! It is amazing how Virtue turns away from dirty stockings and how Vice, combined with ribbons and bright clothes, changes its name, like married women, and becomes Romance.
But one of the tasks of this book is to show the harsh truth, even when it appears in the guise of those people who are so extolled in novels, and therefore I have not hidden from my readers a single hole in the Dodger's frock coat, not a single curl-paper in Nancy's disheveled hair. I had no faith at all in the delicacy of those who were unable to contemplate them. I had not the slightest desire to win supporters among such people. I did not respect their opinions, good or bad, did not seek their approval, and did not write for their amusement.
It was said about Nancy that her devoted love for the ferocious robber seemed unnatural. And at the same time they objected to Sykes, rather inconsistently, I dare say, by arguing that the colors were thickened, because there was not a trace in him of those redeeming qualities that were objected to as unnatural in his mistress. In response to the last objection, I will only note that, as I fear, there are still such insensitive and heartless natures in the world who are completely and hopelessly corrupted. Be that as it may, I am sure of one thing: people like Sikes exist, and if you closely follow them over the same period of time and under the same circumstances as depicted in the novel, they will not be found in any of their actions not the slightest sign of good feelings. Either every softer human feeling in them has died, or the string that should have been touched has rusted and is difficult to find - I do not presume to judge this, but I am sure that this is the case.
It is useless to argue about whether a girl’s behavior and character are natural or unnatural, possible or unthinkable, correct or not. They are the truth itself. Anyone who has observed these sad shadows of life should know this. From the first appearance of this pitiful unfortunate girl to the way she lays her bloody head on the chest of the robber, there is not the slightest exaggeration or exaggeration. This is holy truth, for God leaves this truth in the souls of the depraved and unfortunate; hope still smolders within them; the last clean drop of water at the bottom of a well overgrown with mud. It contains both the best and worst sides of our nature - many of its ugliest properties, but there are also the most beautiful ones; it is a contradiction, an anomaly, seemingly impossible, but it is the truth. I am glad that they doubted it, for if I had needed confirmation that this truth needed to be told, this last circumstance would have inspired this confidence in me.
In 1850, one eccentric alderman publicly declared in London that there was no Jacob’s Island and there never had been. But even in 1867, Jacob’s Island (still an unenviable place) continues to exist, although it has changed significantly for the better.
tells the story of the place where Oliver Twist was born and the circumstances surrounding his birth
Among the public buildings in a certain city, which for many reasons it would be prudent not to name and to which I will not give any fictitious name, there is a building that has long been found in almost all cities, large and small, namely, the workhouse. And in this workhouse was born - I need not trouble myself to indicate the day and date, since it has no meaning to the reader, at least at this stage of the story - was born the mortal whose name precedes the beginning of this chapter.