Dickens / Monte Oliver Twist or The Parish Boy's Progress

[Fremdsprachentexte] - Abridged Edition - Dickens, Charles - Weltliteratur in Originalsprache; englisch
1. Auflage 2014
ISBN: 978-3-15-960516-6
Verlag: Reclam Verlag
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Deutsch, 302 Seiten

Reihe: Reclams Universal-Bibliothek

In seinem zweiten und bekanntesten Roman erzählt Dickens, angeregt durch die neuen Armengesetze von 1834, die er scharf attackierte, von den dunklen Schatten, die auf den Glanz der viktorianischen Zeit fallen und mit dem industriellen Aufschwung einhergehen: Armut, Kriminalität, Prostitution, die Verelendung breiter Gesellschaftsschichten. In der Roten Reihe erscheint der Roman, der im Original mehr als 600 Seiten umfasst, in einer für den Englischunterricht gekürzten Version mit Übersetzungen schwieriger Wörter am Fuß jeder Seite, Nachwort und Literaturhinweisen. E-Book mit Seitenzählung der gedruckten Ausgabe: Buch und E-Book können parallel benutzt werden.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Dickens, Charles

Monte, Axel

Leseproben

[10] 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 [11] 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 sevenpence-halfpenny: 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. […] 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 [12] was keeping it in the coal-cellar with a select party of two other young gentlemen, who, after participating with him in a sound threshing, had been locked up therein 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 [13] the inside, on account of them dear children! Walk in sir; walk in, pray, Mr. Bumble, do sir.” […] “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; [14] 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. “I think you will,” said Mrs. Mann, who had noticed the tone of the refusal, and the gesture that had accompanied it. “Just a leetle drop, with a little cold water, and a lump of sugar.” Mr. Bumble coughed. “Now, just a leetle drop,” said Mrs. Mann persuasively. “What is it?” inquired the beadle. “Why, it’s what I’m obliged to keep a little of in the house to put into the blessed infants’ Daffy, when they ain’t well, Mr. Bumble,” replied Mrs. Mann as she opened a corner cupboard, and took down a bottle and glass. “It’s gin. I’ll not deceive you, Mr. B. It’s gin.” “Do you give the children Daffy, Mrs. Mann?” inquired Bumble, following with his eyes the interesting process of mixing. [15] “Ah, bless ’em, that I do, dear as it is,” replied the nurse. “I couldn’t see ’em suffer before my very eyes, you know, sir.” “No,” said Mr. Bumble approvingly; “no, you could not. You are a humane woman, Mrs. Mann.” (Here she set down the glass.) “I shall take a early opportunity of mentioning it to the board, Mrs. Mann.” (He drew it towards him.) “You feel as a mother, Mrs. Mann.” (He stirred the gin-and-water.) “I – I drink your health with cheerfulness, Mrs. Mann;” and he swallowed half of it. “And now about business,” said the beadle, taking out a leathern pocket-book. “The child that was half-baptized Oliver Twist, is nine year old to-day.” “Bless him!” interposed Mrs. Mann, inflaming her left eye with the corner of her apron. “And notwithstanding a offered reward of ten pound, which was afterwards increased to twenty pound. Notwithstanding the most superlative, and, I may say, supernat’ral exertions on the part of this parish,” said Bumble, “we have never been able to discover who is his father, or what was his mother’s settlement, name, or con – dition.” Mrs. Mann raised her hands in astonishment; but added, after a moment’s reflection, “How comes he to have any name at all, then?” The beadle drew himself up with great pride, and said, “I inwented it.” [16] “You, Mr. Bumble!” “I, Mrs. Mann. We name our fondlins in alphabetical order. The last was a S, – Swubble, I named him. This was a T, – Twist, I named him. The next one as comes will be Unwin, and the next Vilkins. I have got names ready made to the end of the alphabet, and all the way through it again, when we come to Z.” “Why, you’re quite a literary character, sir!” said Mrs. Mann. “Well, well,” said the beadle, evidently...