OLIVER TWIST

OR THE PARISH BOY'S PROGRESS



BY CHARLES DICKENS

CHAPTER I

TREATS OF THE PLACE WHERE OLIVER TWIST WAS BORN AND OF THE

CIRCUMSTANCES ATTENDING HIS BIRTH

Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many

reasons it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to

which I will assign no fictitious name, there is one anciently

common to most towns, great or small: to wit, a workhouse; and

in this workhouse was born; on a day and date which I need not

trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible

consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business at all

events; the item of mortality whose name is prefixed to the head

of this chapter.

For a long time after it was ushered into this world of sorrow

and trouble, by the parishsurgeon, it remained a matter of

considerable doubt whether the child would survive to bear any

name at all; in which case it is somewhat more than probable that

these memoirs would never have appeared; or, if they had, that

being comprised within a couple of pages, they would have

possessed the inestimable merit of being the most concise and

faithful specimen of biography, extant in the literature of any

age or country.

Although I am not disposed to maintain that the being born in a

workhouse, is in itself the most fortunate and enviable

circumstance that can possibly befall a human being, I do mean to

say that in this particular instance, it was the best thing for

Oliver Twist that could by possibility have occurred. The fact

is, that there was considerable difficulty in inducing Oliver to

take upon himself the office of respiration,--a troublesome

practice, but one which custom has rendered necessary to our easy

existence; and for some time he lay gasping on a little flock

mattress, rather unequally poised between this world and the

next: the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter. Now,

if, during this brief period, Oliver had been surrounded by

careful grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and

doctors of profound wisdom, he would most inevitably and

indubitably have been killed in no time. There being nobody by,

however, but a pauper old woman, who was rendered rather misty by

an unwonted allowance of beer; and a parishsurgeon who did such

matters by contract; Oliver and Nature fought out the point

between them. The result was, that, after a few struggles,

Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to advertise to the

inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden having been

imposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as could

reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not been

possessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much

longer space of time than three minutes and a quarter.

As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of

his lungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over

the iron bedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was

raised feebly from the pillow; and a faint voice imperfectly

articulated the words, 'Let me see the child, and die.'

The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the

fire: giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub

alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to

the bed's head, said, with more kindness than might have been

expected of him:

'Oh, you must not talk about dying yet.'

'Lor bless her dear heart, no!' interposed the nurse, hastily

depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of

which she had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction.

'Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have,

sir, and had thirteen children of her own, and all on 'em dead

except two, and them in the wurkus with me, she'll know better

than to take on in that way, bless her dear heart! Think what it

is to be a mother, there's a dear young lamb do.'

Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother's prospects

failed in producing its due effect. The patient shook her head,

and stretched out her hand towards the child.

The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold

white lips passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over

her face; gazed wildly round; shuddered; fell back--and died.

They chafed her breast, hands, and temples; but the blood had

stopped forever. They talked of hope and comfort. They had been

strangers too long.

'It's all over, Mrs. Thingummy!' said the surgeon at last.

'Ah, poor dear, so it is!' said the nurse, picking up the cork of

the green bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she

stooped to take up the child. 'Poor dear!'

'You needn't mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse,'

said the surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation.

'It's very likely it WILL be troublesome. Give it a little gruel

if it is.' He put on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on

his way to the door, added, 'She was a good-looking girl, too;

where did she come from?'

'She was brought here last night,' replied the old woman, 'by the

overseer's order. She was found lying in the street. She had

walked some distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but

where she came from, or where she was going to, nobody knows.'

The surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left hand. 'The

old story,' he said, shaking his head: 'no wedding-ring, I see.

Ah! Good-night!'

The medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and the nurse,

having once more applied herself to the green bottle, sat down on

a low chair before the fire, and proceeded to dress the infant.

What an excellent example of the power of dress, young Oliver

Twist was! Wrapped in the blanket which had hitherto formed his

only covering, he might have been the child of a nobleman or a

beggar; it would have been hard for the haughtiest stranger to

have assigned him his proper station in society. But now that he

was enveloped in the old calico robes which had grown yellow in

the same service, he was badged and ticketed, and fell into his

place at once--a parish child--the orphan of a workhouse--the

humble, half-starved drudge--to be cuffed and buffeted through

the world--despised by all, and pitied by none.

Oliver cried lustily. If he could have known that he was an

orphan, left to the tender mercies of church-wardens and

overseers, perhaps he would have cried the louder.
关键字:雾都孤儿
生词表: