The night was bitterly cold. The snow lay on the ground, frozen into a hard, thick crust. Only the heaps that had drifted into narrow byways and corners were disturbed by the sharp wind that howled outside. This wind, as if expending its increased fury on whatever prey it could find, caught the snow up savagely in clouds and, whirling it into a thousand misty eddies, scattered it into the air. Bleak, dark, and piercingly cold, it was a night for the well-housed and well-fed to draw close to a bright fire and thank God they were at home; it was a night for the homeless, starving wretch to lie down and die. Many hunger-worn outcasts close their eyes in our bare streets at such times—who, no matter what their crimes may have been, can hardly open them in a more bitter world than this one.
Such was the state of affairs outdoors when Mrs. Corney, the matron of the workhouse—already introduced as the birthplace of Oliver Twist—sat down before a cheerful fire in her own little room. She glanced with a great deal of complacency at a small round table, on which stood a tray of a corresponding size. On the tray were all the necessary materials for the most grateful meal that matrons enjoy; in fact, Mrs. Corney was about to comfort herself with a cup of tea. As she looked from the table to the fireplace, where the smallest of all possible kettles was singing a quiet song in a soft voice, her inward satisfaction evidently increased. Indeed, she was so pleased that she actually smiled.
"Well!" said the matron, leaning her elbow on the table and looking reflectively at the fire. "I’m sure we all have a great deal to be grateful for! A great deal, if we only knew it. Ah!"
Mrs. Corney shook her head mournfully, as if deploring the mental blindness of those paupers who did not realize how fortunate they were. Thrusting a silver spoon (her own private property) into the furthest corners of a small tin tea-caddy, she proceeded to make the tea.
How slight a thing can disturb the balance of our fragile minds! The black teapot, being very small and easily filled, ran over while Mrs. Corney was lost in thought, and the boiling water slightly scalded her hand.
"Drat the pot!" said the worthy matron, setting it down hastily on the hob. "A little stupid thing that only holds a couple of cups! What use is it to anybody? Except," she added, pausing, "except to a poor, lonely creature like me. Oh dear!"
With these words, the matron dropped into her chair and, once more resting her elbow on the table, thought of her solitary fate. The small teapot and the single cup had awakened sad recollections of the late Mr. Corney, who had been dead for twenty-five years. She felt quite overwhelmed by the memory.
"I shall never get another!" said Mrs. Corney crossly. "I shall never get another—like him."
Whether this remark referred to her husband or the teapot remains uncertain. It might have been the latter, for Mrs. Corney looked at it as she spoke and picked it up immediately afterward. She had just tasted her first cup when she was disturbed by a soft knock at the door.
"Oh, come in!" said Mrs. Corney sharply. "Some of the old women are dying, I suppose. They always die when I’m at my meals. Don’t just stand there letting the cold air in! What’s wrong now?"
"Nothing, ma’am, nothing," replied a man’s voice.
"Dear me!" exclaimed the matron in a much sweeter tone. "Is that Mr. Bumble?"
"At your service, ma’am," said Mr. Bumble, who had been stopping outside to rub his shoes clean and shake the snow off his coat. He now made his appearance, carrying his cocked hat in one hand and a bundle in the other. "Shall I shut the door, ma’am?"
The lady hesitated modestly, worried that there might be some impropriety in holding a private interview with Mr. Bumble behind closed doors. Mr. Bumble, taking advantage of her hesitation and feeling very cold himself, shut it without waiting for permission.
"Hard weather, Mr. Bumble," said the matron.
"Hard indeed, ma’am," replied the beadle. "Anti-parochial weather, this is. We have given away twenty loaves and a cheese and a half this very afternoon; and yet those paupers are still not satisfied."
"Of course not. When would they ever be satisfied, Mr. Bumble?" said the matron, sipping her tea.
"When indeed, ma’am!" agreed Mr. Bumble. "Why, there’s one man who, because of his wife and large family, was given a full loaf and a pound of cheese. Is he grateful, ma’am? Not a penny’s worth! What does he do but ask for a few coals? Even if it’s only a handful, he says! Coals! What would he do with coals? Toast his cheese with them and then come back for more. That’s the way with these people, ma’am. Give them an apron full of coals today, and they’ll come back for another the day after tomorrow, as bold as can be."
The matron expressed her entire agreement with this comparison, and the beadle continued.
"I have never seen anything like the level it’s reached lately. The day before yesterday, a man—and since you’ve been a married woman, ma’am, I may mention this to you—a man with hardly a rag on his back goes to our overseer’s door just as he has guests coming for dinner. He demands to be helped, Mrs. Corney. As he wouldn’t go away and was shocking the company, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and some oatmeal. 'My goodness!' says the ungrateful villain. 'What’s the use of this to me? You might as well give me a pair of iron spectacles!' 'Very well,' says our overseer, taking them away again, 'you won’t get anything else here.' 'Then I’ll die in the streets!' says the vagrant. 'Oh no, you won’t,' says our overseer."
"Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn’t it?" interrupted the matron. "Well, Mr. Bumble?"
"Well, ma’am," rejoined the beadle, "he went away, and he did die in the streets. There’s an obstinate pauper for you!"
"It’s almost unbelievable," observed the matron with emphasis. "But don’t you think helping people in their own homes is a very bad thing, anyway, Mr. Bumble? You’re a gentleman of experience and ought to know."
"Mrs. Corney," said the beadle, smiling with the confidence of a man who possesses superior knowledge, "outdoor relief, when properly managed, is the safeguard of the parish. The great principle is to give the paupers exactly what they don’t want; eventually, they get tired of coming."
"Dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Corney. "Well, that is a clever idea!"
"Yes. Between you and me, ma’am," returned Mr. Bumble, "that’s the secret. That’s why, if you look at any cases mentioned in those scandalous newspapers, you’ll always notice that sick families have been given slices of cheese. That’s the rule now, Mrs. Corney, all over the country. However," said the beadle, stopping to unpack his bundle, "these are official secrets, ma’am, not to be spoken of except among ourselves. This is the port wine that the board ordered for the infirmary; real, genuine port, straight from the cask this morning."
Having held the first bottle up to the light and shaken it to test its quality, Mr. Bumble placed both bottles on top of a chest of drawers. He folded the handkerchief they had been wrapped in, put it carefully in his pocket, and picked up his hat as if he were about to leave.
"You’ll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble," said the matron.
"The wind is blowing hard enough to cut one’s ears off," replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat collar.
The matron looked from the little kettle to the beadle, who was moving toward the door. As the beadle coughed, preparing to say goodnight, she bashfully inquired whether he would stay for a cup of tea.
Mr. Bumble immediately turned down his collar again, laid his hat and stick on a chair, and drew another chair up to the table. As he slowly seated himself, he looked at the lady. She fixed her eyes upon the little teapot. Mr. Bumble coughed again and smiled slightly.
Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the cupboard. As she sat down, her eyes once again met those of the gallant beadle; she blushed and focused on the task of making his tea. Again Mr. Bumble coughed—louder this time than before.
"Sugar, Mr. Bumble?" inquired the matron, picking up the sugar bowl.
"Very sweet, indeed, ma’am," replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on Mrs. Corney as he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr. Bumble was that beadle at that moment.
The tea was made and handed over in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread a handkerchief over his knees to prevent any crumbs from ruining his fine trousers, began to eat and drink. He varied these activities occasionally by letting out a deep sigh. This did not seem to harm his appetite; on the contrary, it appeared to help him consume his tea and toast even faster.
"You have a cat, ma’am, I see," said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one that was resting before the fire with its kittens.
"I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you have no idea," replied the matron. "They’re so happy and cheerful that they are wonderful companions for me."
"Very nice animals, ma’am," replied Mr. Bumble approvingly. "Very domestic."
"Oh, yes!" agreed the matron enthusiastically. "They are so fond of their home that it’s quite a pleasure."
"Mrs. Corney, ma’am," said Mr. Bumble slowly, marking time with his teaspoon, "I mean to say this: any cat or kitten that could live with you and not be fond of its home must be a fool, ma’am."
"Oh, Mr. Bumble!" protested Mrs. Corney.
"There’s no use hiding the facts, ma’am," said Mr. Bumble, waving his teaspoon with a kind of romantic dignity. "I would drown it myself with pleasure."
"Then you’re a cruel man," said the matron playfully, as she held out her hand for the beadle’s cup, "and a very hard-hearted man besides."
"Hard-hearted, ma’am?" said Mr. Bumble. "Hard?" He gave up his cup without another word, squeezed Mrs. Corney’s little finger as she took it, and, after patting his chest, let out a massive sigh. He then moved his chair a tiny bit further from the fire.
It was a round table, and as they had been sitting opposite each other near the fire, by moving away from the heat but staying at the table, Mr. Bumble was actually moving closer to Mrs. Corney. Some cautious readers might admire this as an act of great courage on Mr. Bumble's part. He was tempted by the time and place to say romantic things that might be considered inappropriate for a man of his high official standing. A beadle, after all, is expected to be the most serious and stern of all public officials.
Whatever his intentions were, the fact that the table was round meant that as Mr. Bumble moved his chair bit by bit, he soon began to close the distance between himself and the matron. Eventually, his chair was touching hers.
When the two chairs touched, Mr. Bumble stopped. Now, if the matron had moved her chair to the right, she would have been scorched by the fire; if she had moved to the left, she would have fallen into Mr. Bumble’s arms. Being a sensible woman and clearly seeing these consequences, she remained where she was and handed Mr. Bumble another cup of tea.
"Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?" said Mr. Bumble, stirring his tea and looking up into her face. "Are you hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?"
"Dear me!" exclaimed the matron. "What a very strange question from a single man. Why would you want to know that, Mr. Bumble?"
The beadle drank his tea to the last drop, finished a piece of toast, wiped the crumbs from his knees, and deliberately kissed the matron.
"Mr. Bumble!" cried the lady in a whisper; she was so shocked that she had almost lost her voice. "Mr. Bumble, I shall scream!"
Mr. Bumble made no reply but, in a slow and dignified manner, put his arm around the matron’s waist. As the lady had stated her intention to scream, she surely would have done so at this additional boldness. However, her effort was made unnecessary by a loud knocking at the door. As soon as he heard it, Mr. Bumble jumped up with great agility, ran to the wine bottles, and began dusting them with unnecessary violence, while the matron sharply asked who was there.
It is interesting to note how a sudden surprise can overcome extreme fear; her voice had instantly regained its usual professional harshness.
"If you please, mistress," said a withered old pauper woman, looking through the door, "Old Sally is dying fast."
"Well, what’s that to me?" demanded the matron angrily. "I can’t keep her alive, can I?"
"No, mistress," replied the old woman, "nobody can. She is beyond help. I’ve seen many people die, from babies to strong men, and I know the signs. But she’s troubled in her mind. She says she has something to tell you that you must hear. She won’t die in peace until you come."
At this news, Mrs. Corney muttered several complaints about old women who couldn’t even die without annoying their superiors. Wrapping herself in a thick shawl, she requested Mr. Bumble to stay until she returned, in case anything important happened. Ordering the messenger to walk faster and not spend all night climbing the stairs, she followed her from the room in a very bad mood, scolding the whole way.
Mr. Bumble’s behavior when left alone was rather strange. He opened the cupboard, counted the silver teaspoons, weighed the sugar tongs, and closely inspected a silver milk-pot to make sure it was genuine. Having satisfied his curiosity, he put on his cocked hat and danced with great seriousness four times around the table.
After this extraordinary performance, he took off his hat again and stood before the fire with his back to it. He seemed to be mentally making a list of all the furniture in the room, calculating its value.