Nobody’s Story Page #2

"Nobody's Story" is a novella by Charles Dickens, which was originally part of the collection "The Pickwick Papers." The narrative explores themes of social justice, identity, and the human experience through the lens of an elderly man reflecting on his life and the trials he has faced. Dickens' characteristic wit and keen observation shine through as he delves into the complexities of relationships, societal norms, and the often unseen struggles of individuals. The story captures the essence of resilience and the importance of compassion in a seemingly indifferent world.

• Short story

								

news began to spread that a pestilence had appeared among the labourers,
and was slaying them by thousands.  Going forth to look about him, he
soon found this to be true.  The dying and the dead were mingled in the
close and tainted houses among which his life was passed.  New poison was
distilled into the always murky, always sickening air.  The robust and
the weak, old age and infancy, the father and the mother, all were
stricken down alike.

What means of flight had he?  He remained there, where he was, and saw
those who were dearest to him die.  A kind preacher came to him, and
would have said some prayers to soften his heart in his gloom, but he
replied:

“O what avails it, missionary, to come to me, a man condemned to
residence in this foetid place, where every sense bestowed upon me for my
delight becomes a torment, and where every minute of my numbered days is
new mire added to the heap under which I lie oppressed!  But, give me my
first glimpse of Heaven, through a little of its light and air; give me
pure water; help me to be clean; lighten this heavy atmosphere and heavy
life, in which our spirits sink, and we become the indifferent and
callous creatures you too often see us; gently and kindly take the bodies
of those who die among us, out of the small room where we grow to be so
familiar with the awful change that even its sanctity is lost to us; and,
Teacher, then I will hear—none know better than you, how willingly—of Him
whose thoughts were so much with the poor, and who had compassion for all
human sorrow!”

He was at work again, solitary and sad, when his Master came and stood
near to him dressed in black.  He, also, had suffered heavily.  His young
wife, his beautiful and good young wife, was dead; so, too, his only
child.

“Master, ’tis hard to bear—I know it—but be comforted.  I would give you
comfort, if I could.”

The Master thanked him from his heart, but, said he, “O you labouring
men!  The calamity began among you.  If you had but lived more healthily
and decently, I should not be the widowed and bereft mourner that I am
this day.”

“Master,” returned the other, shaking his head, “I have begun to
understand a little that most calamities will come from us, as this one
did, and that none will stop at our poor doors, until we are united with
that great squabbling family yonder, to do the things that are right.  We
cannot live healthily and decently, unless they who undertook to manage
us provide the means.  We cannot be instructed unless they will teach us;
we cannot be rationally amused, unless they will amuse us; we cannot but
have some false gods of our own, while they set up so many of theirs in
all the public places.  The evil consequences of imperfect instruction,
the evil consequences of pernicious neglect, the evil consequences of
unnatural restraint and the denial of humanising enjoyments, will all
come from us, and none of them will stop with us.  They will spread far
and wide.  They always do; they always have done—just like the
pestilence.  I understand so much, I think, at last.”

But the Master said again, “O you labouring men!  How seldom do we ever
hear of you, except in connection with some trouble!”

“Master,” he replied, “I am Nobody, and little likely to be heard of (nor
yet much wanted to be heard of, perhaps), except when there is some
trouble.  But it never begins with me, and it never can end with me.  As
sure as Death, it comes down to me, and it goes up from me.”

There was so much reason in what he said, that the Bigwig family, getting
wind of it, and being horribly frightened by the late desolation,
resolved to unite with him to do the things that were right—at all
events, so far as the said things were associated with the direct
prevention, humanly speaking, of another pestilence.  But, as their fear
wore off, which it soon began to do, they resumed their falling out among
themselves, and did nothing.  Consequently the scourge appeared again—low
down as before—and spread avengingly upward as before, and carried off
vast numbers of the brawlers.  But not a man among them ever admitted, if
in the least degree he ever perceived, that he had anything to do with
it.

So Nobody lived and died in the old, old, old way; and this, in the main,
is the whole of Nobody’s story.

Had he no name, you ask?  Perhaps it was Legion.  It matters little what
his name was.  Let us call him Legion.

If you were ever in the Belgian villages near the field of Waterloo, you
will have seen, in some quiet little church, a monument erected by
faithful companions in arms to the memory of Colonel A, Major B, Captains
C, D and E, Lieutenants F and G, Ensigns H, I and J, seven
non-commissioned officers, and one hundred and thirty rank and file, who
fell in the discharge of their duty on the memorable day.  The story of
Nobody is the story of the rank and file of the earth.  They bear their
share of the battle; they have their part in the victory; they fall; they
leave no name but in the mass.  The march of the proudest of us, leads to
the dusty way by which they go.  O!  Let us think of them this year at
the Christmas fire, and not forget them when it is burnt out.
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