Among the various public buildings in a certain town, which for several reasons it would be wise to refrain from naming, there is one that was once common to almost every town, whether great or small: a workhouse. It was in this workhouse that the individual whose name is mentioned at the head of this chapter was born, on a date that I need not bother to repeat, as it is of no real consequence to the reader at this stage of the story.
For a long time after he was ushered into this world of sorrow and trouble by the parish surgeon, it remained highly doubtful whether the child would survive to bear any name at all. Had he died, it is more than probable that these memoirs would never have appeared; or, if they had, they would have been so short that they would have stood as the most concise and faithful biography ever found in literature.
Although I do not wish to claim that being born in a workhouse is the most fortunate or enviable circumstance that can happen to a human being, I do mean to say that, in this particular case, it was the best thing that could possibly have occurred for Oliver Twist. The fact is, there was considerable difficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon himself the task of respiration—a troublesome practice, but one which custom has made necessary for our existence. For some time, he lay gasping on a small mattress, balanced unequally between this world and the next, with the scales tipped decidedly in favor of the latter.
Now, if Oliver had been surrounded by careful grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and doctors of great wisdom during this brief period, he would inevitably have been killed in no time. However, as there was nobody present but a poor old woman, who was somewhat confused by an unusual amount of beer, and a parish surgeon who performed such duties by contract, Oliver and Nature fought out the matter between them. The result was that, after a few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to announce to the residents of the workhouse that a new burden had been imposed upon the parish. He did this by letting out as loud a cry as could reasonably be expected from a male infant who had only possessed a voice for three minutes and a quarter.
As Oliver gave this first proof of the proper action of his lungs, the patchwork quilt which was carelessly thrown over the iron bed moved. The pale face of a young woman was raised feebly from the pillow, and a faint voice whispered the words, “Let me see the child, and die.”
The surgeon had been sitting with his face toward the fire, warming and rubbing his hands alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose and, approaching the head of the bed, said with more kindness than might have been expected of him:
“Oh, you must not talk about dying yet.”
“Lord bless her dear heart, no!” interrupted the nurse, hastily hiding a green glass bottle in her pocket, the contents of which she had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction. “Lord bless her, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had thirteen children of her own—and all of them dead except two, and those in the workhouse with me—she’ll know better than to talk that way! Think what it is to be a mother, there’s a dear young lamb, do.”
Apparently, this comforting vision of a mother’s future failed to have the desired effect. The patient shook her head and stretched out her hand toward the child.
The surgeon placed the infant in her arms. She pressed her cold, white lips passionately to his forehead, passed her hands over her face, gazed wildly around the room, shuddered, fell back—and died. They rubbed her chest, hands, and forehead, but the blood had stopped forever. They spoke of hope and comfort, but she and such words had been strangers for too long.
“It’s all over, Mrs. Thingummy!” the surgeon said at last.
“Ah, poor dear, so it is!” said the nurse, picking up the cork of the green bottle, which had fallen onto the pillow as she leaned over to take the child. “Poor dear!”
“You needn’t bother sending for me if the child cries, nurse,” said the surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. “It’s very likely he will be troublesome. Give him a little gruel if he 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 must have walked a long way, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she came from, or where she was going, nobody knows.”
The surgeon leaned over the body and raised the left hand. “The old story,” he remarked, shaking his head. “No wedding ring, I see. Ah! Good-night!”
The medical gentleman left for his dinner, and the nurse, after having once more turned to the green bottle, sat down on a low chair before the fire and began to dress the infant.
What an extraordinary example of the power of clothing young Oliver Twist was! Wrapped in the blanket which had been his only covering until now, he might have been the child of a nobleman or a beggar; even the most arrogant stranger would have found it hard to assign him his proper social status. But now that he was wrapped in the old calico robes which had turned yellow from years of use, he was labeled and identified immediately. He was a parish child—an orphan of a workhouse—a humble, half-starved slave, destined to be neglected and mistreated by the world, despised by all, and pitied by none.
Oliver cried loudly. If he could have known that he was an orphan, left to the "tender mercies" of churchwardens and parish officials, perhaps he would have cried even louder.