Oliver Twist
FAGIN’S LAST NIGHT ALIVE
The was paved, from to roof, with faces. Inquisitive and from every of space. From the rail the dock, away into the of the smallest in the galleries, all looks were upon one man—Fagin. Before him and behind: above, below, on the right and on the left: he to by a firmament, all with eyes.
He there, in all this of light, with one hand on the him, the other to his ear, and his to him to catch with every word that from the judge, who was his to the jury. At times, he his upon them to the of the in his favour; and when the points against him were with terrible distinctness, looked his counsel, in mute that he would, then, something in his behalf. Beyond these of anxiety, he not hand or foot. He had moved since the trial began; and now that the judge to speak, he still in the same of close attention, with his on him, as though he still.
A in the court, him to himself. Looking round, he saw that the had together, to their verdict. As his to the gallery, he see the people above each other to see his face: some their to their eyes: and others their with looks of abhorrence. A there were, who of him, and looked only to the jury, in wonder how they delay. But in no one face—not among the women, of there were many there—could he read the with himself, or any but one of all-absorbing that he should be condemned.
As he saw all this in one glance, the came again, and looking he saw that the had the judge. Hush!
They only permission to retire.
He looked, wistfully, into their faces, one by one when they passed out, as though to see which way the number leant; but that was fruitless. The touched him on the shoulder. He to the end of the dock, and sat on a chair. The man pointed it out, or he would not have it.
He looked up into the again. Some of the people were eating, and some themselves with handkerchiefs; for the place was very hot. There was one man sketching his in a little note-book. He it was like, and looked on when the artist his pencil-point, and another with his knife, as any might have done.
In the same way, when he his the judge, his mind to itself with the fashion of his dress, and what it cost, and how he put it on. There was an old on the bench, too, who had gone out, some an hour before, and now come back. He himself this man had been to his dinner, what he had had, and where he had had it; and this train of careless until some new object his and another.
Not that, all this time, his mind was, for an instant, free from one of the that opened at his feet; it was present to him, but in a and way, and he not his upon it. Thus, while he trembled, and at the idea of death, he to the iron him, and how the of one had been off, and they would it, or it as it was. Then, he of all the of the and the scaffold—and stopped to watch a man the to it—and then on to think again.
At length there was a of silence, and a look from all the door. The returned, and passed him close. He nothing from their faces; they might as well have been of stone. Perfect ensued—not a rustle—not a breath—Guilty.
The with a shout, and another, and another, and then it loud groans, that as they out, like angry thunder. It was a of from the outside, the news that he would die on Monday.
The noise subsided, and he was asked if he had anything to say why of death should not be passed upon him. He had his attitude, and looked at his while the was made; but it was twice he to it, and then he only that he was an old man—an old man—and so, into a whisper, was again.
The judge the black cap, and the still with the same air and gesture. A woman in the gallery, some exclamation, called by this solemnity; he looked up as if angry at the interruption, and yet more attentively. The address was and impressive; the to hear. But he stood, like a marble figure, without the motion of a nerve. His was still forward, his under-jaw down, and his out him, when the put his hand upon his arm, and him away. He about him for an instant, and obeyed.
They him through a room under the court, where some were waiting till their came, and others were talking to their friends, who a which looked into the open yard. There was nobody there to speak to him; but, as he passed, the to him more visible to the people who were to the bars: and they him with names, and and hissed. He his fist, and would have upon them; but his him on, through a passage by a lamps, into the of the prison.
Here, he was searched, that he might not have about him the means of the law; this performed, they him to one of the cells, and left him there—alone.
He sat on a bench opposite the door, which for seat and bedstead; and his blood-shot upon the ground, to his thoughts. After awhile, he to a of what the judge had said: though it had to him, at the time, that he not a word. These into their proper places, and by more: so that in a little time he had the whole, almost as it was delivered. To be by the neck, till he was dead—that was the end. To be by the till he was dead.
As it came on very dark, he to think of all the men he had who had died upon the scaffold; some of them through his means. They rose up, in such quick succession, that he count them. He had some of them die,—and had too, they died with prayers upon their lips. With what a noise the down; and how they changed, from and men to of clothes!
Some of them might have that very cell—sat upon that very spot. It was very dark; why didn’t they a light? The had been for many years. Scores of men must have passed their last hours there. It was like in a with bodies—the cap, the noose, the arms, the that he knew, that veil.—Light, light!
At length, when his hands were with against the door and walls, two men appeared: one a candle, which he into an iron against the wall: the other in a on which to pass the night; for the was to be left alone no more.
Then came the night—dark, dismal, night. Other are to this church-clock strike, for they tell of life and day. To him they despair. The of every iron came with the one, deep, sound—Death. What the noise and of morning, which there, to him? It was another of knell, with added to the warning.
The day passed off. Day? There was no day; it was gone as soon as come—and night came on again; night so long, and yet so short; long in its silence, and in its hours. At one time he and blasphemed; and at another and his hair. Venerable men of his own had come to pray him, but he had them away with curses. They their efforts, and he them off.
Saturday night. He had only one night more to live. And as he of this, the day broke—Sunday.
It was not until the night of this last day, that a of his helpless, came in its full upon his soul; not that he had any or positive of mercy, but that he had been able to more than the of so soon. He had spoken little to either of the two men, who each other in their upon him; and they, for their parts, no to his attention. He had sat there, awake, but dreaming. Now, he started up, every minute, and with mouth and skin, to and fro, in such a of and that they—used to such sights—recoiled from him with horror. He so terrible, at last, in all the of his conscience, that one man not to there, him alone; and so the two watch together.
He upon his bed, and of the past. He had been with some from the on the day of his capture, and his was with a cloth. His red upon his face; his was torn, and into knots; his with a terrible light; his with the that him up. Eight—nine—then. If it was not a to him, and those were the hours on each other’s heels, where would he be, when they came again! Eleven! Another struck, the voice of the previous hour had to vibrate. At eight, he would be the only in his own train; at eleven—
Those of Newgate, which have so much and such anguish, not only from the eyes, but, too often, and too long, from the thoughts, of men, so a as that. The who as they passed, and what the man was doing who was to be to-morrow, would have slept but that night, if they have him.
From early in the until nearly midnight, little groups of two and three presented themselves at the lodge-gate, and inquired, with faces, any had been received. These being answered in the negative, the welcome to in the street, who pointed out to one another the door from which he must come out, and where the would be built, and, walking with steps away, to up the scene. By they off, one by one; and, for an hour, in the of night, the was left to and darkness.
The space the prison was cleared, and a barriers, painted black, had been already across the road to the pressure of the crowd, when Mr. Brownlow and Oliver appeared at the wicket, and presented an order of to the prisoner, by one of the sheriffs. They were into the lodge.
“Is the to come too, sir?” said the man it was to them. “It’s not a for children, sir.”
“It is not indeed, my friend,” Mr. Brownlow; “but my with this man is with him; and as this child has him in the full career of his success and villainy, I think it as well—even at the cost of some pain and fear—that he should see him now.”
These had been said apart, so as to be to Oliver. The man touched his hat; and at Oliver with some curiousity, opened another gate, opposite to that by which they had entered, and them on, through dark and ways, the cells.
“This,” said the man, stopping in a passage where a of were making some in silence—“this is the place he through. If you step this way, you can see the door he goes out at.”
He them into a kitchen, with for the prison food, and pointed to a door. There was an open above it, through which came the of men’s voices, with the noise of hammering, and the of boards. They were up the scaffold.
From this place, they passed through gates, opened by other from the side; and, having entered an open yard, a of narrow steps, and came into a passage with a of doors on the left hand. Motioning them to where they were, the at one of these with his of keys. The two attendants, after a little whispering, came out into the passage, themselves as if of the temporary relief, and the visitors to the into the cell. They did so.
The was seated on his bed, himself from to side, with a more like that of a than the of a man. His mind was to his old life, for he to mutter, without appearing of their presence otherwise than as a part of his vision.
“Good boy, Charley—well done—” he mumbled. “Oliver, too, ha! ha! ha! Oliver too—quite the now—quite the—take that boy away to bed!”
The took the hand of Oliver; and, him not to be alarmed, looked on without speaking.
“Take him away to bed!” Fagin. “Do you me, some of you? He has been the—the—somehow the of all this. It’s the money to him up to it—Bolter’s throat, Bill; mind the girl—Bolter’s as as you can cut. Saw his off!”
“Fagin,” said the jailer.
“That’s me!” the Jew, instantly, into the of he had upon his trial. “An old man, my Lord; a very old, old man!”
“Here,” said the turnkey, his hand upon his to keep him down. “Here’s somebody wants to see you, to ask you some questions, I suppose. Fagin, Fagin! Are you a man?”
“I shan’t be one long,” he replied, looking up with a no but and terror. “Strike them all dead! What right have they to me?”
As he spoke he of Oliver and Mr. Brownlow. Shrinking to the of the seat, he to know what they wanted there.
“Steady,” said the turnkey, still him down. “Now, sir, tell him what you want. Quick, if you please, for he as the time on.”
“You have some papers,” said Mr. Brownlow advancing, “which were in your hands, for security, by a man called Monks.”
“It’s all a together,” Fagin. “I haven’t one—not one.”
“For the love of God,” said Mr. Brownlow solemnly, “do not say that now, upon the very of death; but tell me where they are. You know that Sikes is dead; that Monks has confessed; that there is no of any gain. Where are those papers?”
“Oliver,” Fagin, to him. “Here, here! Let me to you.”
“I am not afraid,” said Oliver in a low voice, as he Mr. Brownlow’s hand.
“The papers,” said Fagin, Oliver him, “are in a bag, in a a little way up the in the top front-room. I want to talk to you, my dear. I want to talk to you.”
“Yes, yes,” returned Oliver. “Let me say a prayer. Do! Let me say one prayer. Say only one, upon your knees, with me, and we will talk till morning.”
“Outside, outside,” Fagin, pushing the boy him the door, and looking over his head. “Say I’ve gone to sleep—they’ll you. You can me out, if you take me so. Now then, now then!”
“Oh! God this man!” the boy with a of tears.
“That’s right, that’s right,” said Fagin. “That’ll help us on. This door first. If I shake and tremble, as we pass the gallows, don’t you mind, but on. Now, now, now!”
“Have you nothing else to ask him, sir?” the turnkey.
“No other question,” Mr. Brownlow. “If I we him to a of his position—”
“Nothing will do that, sir,” the man, his head. “You had him.”
The door of the opened, and the returned.
“Press on, press on,” Fagin. “Softly, but not so slow. Faster, faster!”
The men hands upon him, and Oliver from his grasp, him back. He with the power of desperation, for an instant; and then sent up upon that those walls, and in their ears until they the open yard.
It was some time they left the prison. Oliver nearly after this scene, and was so weak that for an hour or more, he had not the to walk.
Day was when they again emerged. A great had already assembled; the were with people, and playing cards to the time; the were pushing, quarrelling, joking. Everything told of life and animation, but one dark of objects in the centre of all—the black stage, the cross-beam, the rope, and all the of death.
