In a certain town, among its public buildings, there is a workhouse—a common feature in most towns, large or small. In this workhouse, on a day and date of no consequence to the reader, was born the infant whose name heads this chapter. For a long time after his arrival into this world of sorrow and trouble, ushered in by the parish surgeon, it remained highly doubtful whether the child would survive to bear any name at all. If he hadn't, these memoirs would likely never have appeared, or if they had, they would have been so brief as to be the most concise biography ever. While being born in a workhouse isn't the most fortunate circumstance, for Oliver Twist, in this particular instance, it was the best thing that could have happened. The fact is, Oliver had considerable difficulty beginning to breathe—a troublesome but necessary practice for our easy existence. For some time, he lay gasping on a small flock mattress, precariously balanced between this world and the next, with the balance decidedly in favor of the latter.
If, during this brief period, Oliver had been surrounded by doting grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and profoundly wise doctors, he would have undoubtedly been killed in no time. However, there was nobody by but a pauper old woman, made rather disoriented by an unaccustomed allowance of beer, and a parish surgeon who handled such matters by contract. Oliver and nature fought it out between them. The result was that, after a few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to announce his arrival to the workhouse inmates—a new burden on the parish—by letting out as loud a cry as could reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had only just acquired a voice.
As Oliver gave this first proof of his lungs' proper action, the patchwork coverlet flung over the iron bedstead rustled. The pale face of a young female feebly rose 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, warming and rubbing his hands alternately. But as the young woman spoke, he rose and, advancing to the bed’s head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected, “Oh, you must not talk about dying yet.”
“Bless her dear heart, no!” interposed the nurse, hastily putting into her pocket a green glass bottle whose contents she had been tasting with evident satisfaction in a corner. “Bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had thirteen children of her own, and all but two of them gone, and those two in the workhouse with me, she’ll know better than to carry on that way, bless her dear heart! Think what it is to be a mother, there’s a dear young lamb, do.”
Apparently, this comforting perspective on a mother’s prospects failed to have its intended effect. The patient shook her head and stretched out her hand towards the child. The surgeon placed the child in her arms. She passionately pressed her cold white lips on its forehead, passed her hands over her face, gazed wildly around, shuddered, fell back—and died. They rubbed her chest, hands, and temples, but the blood had ceased its flow forever. They spoke of hope and comfort, but hope and comfort 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 bother 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 bedside 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 partaken from the green bottle, sat down on a low chair before the fire and proceeded to dress the infant.
And what an excellent example of the power of clothing young Oliver Twist was! Wrapped in the blanket that had been his only covering, he might have been the child of a nobleman or a beggar;—it would have been hard for the proudest stranger to discern his social standing. But now that he was enveloped in the old calico robes, yellowed from long use, he was marked and identified, and instantly fell into his place—a parish child—the orphan of a workhouse—the humble, half-starved drudge—to be pushed and shoved through the world, looked down upon by all, and pitied by none.
Oliver cried loudly. If he could have known that he was an orphan, left to the harsh realities of churchwardens and overseers, perhaps he would have cried even louder.
