Oliver Twist

Tarea para alumnos en Extraordinario
Imprimir y tradurcir a mano en hojas blancas.



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 parish
surgeon, 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
parish surgeon 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.'
La Mansión del Inglés - http://www.mansioningles.com
'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