Chapter 2 Chapter One

(Discuss where Oliver Twist was born, and the circumstances surrounding his birth.) In a certain small town, due to many reasons, it is better not to mention the name of the city, and I will not even give it a pseudonym.Here, as in countless towns, large and small, among the public buildings there is an ancient institution, the workhouse.The man whose name is mentioned in the title of this chapter was born in this poorhouse on an exact date, which is irrelevant to the reader anyway—at least at this stage. For a long time the child was led by the parish surgeon into this world of misery and turmoil, and for a long time there remained the rather vexed question whether the child would ever be able to live by a name.If this were the case, the biography would probably never be published, or if it could, it would be limited to a few pages, but it would have the inestimable merit of being the most concise surviving document of any country in the world. The most faithful model of biography.

I have no intention of insisting that the very fact of being born in a poor asylum is the most wonderful and enviable luck a man can hope for, but I do mean to point out that at this moment, for Oliver For Twist, this may be the luckiest thing.To tell you the truth, it was quite difficult for Oliver to undertake the function of breathing air by himself at that time--breathing is a troublesome thing, but habit has made this function indispensable to our existence.For a while, he lay panting on a small blanket, tossed between this life and the next, with the balance decidedly in favor of the latter.Apart from other things, if Oliver was surrounded by a group of meticulous and thoughtful old ladies, warm-hearted aunts, experienced nurses and knowledgeable doctors during this short time, there is no doubt that he would have It was the result all at once.Happily the only ones present were an old workhouse woman, already dazed by a little beer which was not so easy to come by, and a parish surgeon who was contracted to do such things.Other than that, no one else.The contest between Oliver and Good Fortune came to an end.As a result, after several rounds, Oliver breathed steadily, sneezed, and cried loudly. As a baby boy, the sound of crying is conceivable. You must know that he was far more than three minutes For fifteen seconds he had never had such a useful accessory as a voice.He began to announce to the whole court the fact that the diocese had a new burden on its shoulders.

Oliver had just proved by this exercise that his lungs were functioning properly and freely, when the patch-on-patch sheet that had been draped haphazardly on the iron bed frame rustled, and a young woman fainted. Lifting his pale face from the pillow, he uttered a few words in a weak voice, "Let me see the child before he dies." The doctor sat facing the fireplace, sometimes warming his palms, sometimes rubbing his hands together, when he heard the young woman's voice, he stood up, walked to the bedside, and said in an unexpectedly kind tone: "Oh, you're not dead yet."

"God help, she can't die, she can't die," interposed the nurse, pocketing a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had tasted in a corner, and was evidently to her liking. "God bless me, but she won't die, and when she's my age, doctor, she's got thirteen children, and all but two are going to die, and those two will stay with me in the workhouse. , when the time comes, she will understand, there is no need to be so excited, she can't die, thinking about what it's like to be a mother, the cute little lamb is here, that's right." These words were originally intended to be used as a mother's prospect to enlighten the mother, but it obviously did not produce the desired effect.The mother shook her head and reached out to the child.

The doctor put the child into her arms, and she affectionately pressed her cold white lips on the child's forehead, then wiped her face with her hands, looked around frantically, and leaned back tremblingly—— died.They rubbed her breasts, her hands, her temples, but the blood stagnated forever.The doctor and the nurse had words of hope and comfort.Hope and comfort have been lost for a long time. "It's all over, Mrs. Singermere," said the doctor at last. "Oh, poor child, that's what it is," said the nurse, picking up from the pillow the stopper of the green bottle that fell when she bent over to hold the child. "poor child."

"Nurse, if the baby cries, you can call for me," said the doctor, putting on his gloves slowly. "The little one is likely to make a fuss. In that case, give him some porridge." He put on his Hat, before reaching the door, stopped by the bed again, and added, "This girl is quite beautiful, where did she come from?" "She was brought in last night," answered the old woman, "at the orders of the parish magistrate. She was seen lying in the street. She had walked a long way, and her shoes were worn like brushes. To say that she Where it came from and where it went, no one knows."

The doctor bent down and took the left hand of the deceased. "That thing again," he said, shaking his head. "Got it, no wedding ring. Ah. Good night." The medical gentleman went out to supper, and the nurse herself, having reaped the benefits of the green glass bottle, sat down on a low chair before the fire and began to dress the baby. Little Oliver may indeed be called an excellent example of how a man depends on his clothes.The only thing he has covered himself since he was born is the blanket wrapped around him. You can call him a son of a noble family, or a beggar's poor son.It is difficult for even the most pompous outsider to ascertain his social status.But in the meantime, wrapped in an old white cloth smock, which was beginning to yellow from so much use, he was stamped, tagged, and in a moment was officially in place--a parish boy--of the workhouse. Orphans—coolies who can neither eat nor starve to death—have to be fisted and slapped when they come into the world.

Oliver wept heartily.He might have cried a little louder if he had realized that he was an orphan and that his fate depended on the mercy of the parish commissioners and poor relief officials.