Orphans of the Mist (one of Dickens's masterpieces, about the brilliance of humanity that flashes in the darkness)

【Editor's Recommendation】

　　A sound mindset is more powerful than a hundred kinds of wisdom　　

★ Dickens works!

　　★ An outstanding masterpiece of British realism.

【Introduction】

Orphans of the Mist is a socially critical novel by the British writer Dickens. Set in the fog capital of London, it tells the tragic life and suffering of orphan Oliver. Growing up in an orphanage, Oliver apprenticed to a funeral parlor at the age of nine, fled to London alone because of the unbearable abuse, and was tricked by thieves into becoming their accomplice. Later, with the help of well-meaning people, coupled with Oliver's own efforts to pursue a happy life, Oliver finally found out his life and lived a happy and happy life.

【About the Author】

　Charles Dickens (1812–1870)

19th-century British novelist. He mainly depicts the lives of people living at the bottom of British society, exposes the hypocrisy and greed of the upper class and the bourgeoisie, profoundly reflects the complex social reality of Britain at that time, and also praises the truth, goodness and beauty of human nature with idealism and romantic feelings, and is regarded by later generations as "a beacon that calls people back to laughter and benevolence". Marx hailed him and Thackeray as Britain's "outstanding group of novelists."

His works include "A Tale of Two Cities", "David Copperfield", "Little Duli", "Great Prospects", "Orphans of the Mist", "Difficult Times", "Desolate Mountain" and so on.

【Content Appreciation】

　　chapter　

　Tells about the birthplace of Olivet West and the situation at the time of his birth

　　In the public buildings of a certain town - for various reasons, for reasons of prudence, I still do not mention the name of the town, nor do I want to use a pseudonym - there is an institution that has always been common in cities large and small: the workhouse. In this workhouse, a baby is born, and his name appears in the title of this chapter. As for the date of the baby's birth, I won't bother to repeat it. Because, in any case, at this stage it may not matter to the reader.

　　Whether the child will survive and have his own name after the parish doctor ushered the baby into this world of sorrow and distress has long been a question of doubt; it is true that the biography may never appear, which is highly probable; or, if it had appeared, only three or two pages, it would have become a concise and credible sample of a biography in the surviving literature of any epoch or any country, and it is a valuable merit it possesses.

　　Although I have no intention of asserting that being born in a workhouse itself may have been a blessing and an enviable thing that befalls someone, I do think that it was good for Oliver West in the particular circumstances of the time. The truth is that it is quite difficult to induce Oliver to use the function of his breathing. Breathing is a nuisance, but it is also necessary for our unconcealed survival; he lay on the mattress for a while, panting, hovering between this life and the next. Apparently, in the wandering the latter prevailed. At this moment, if, in this short time, Oliver is surrounded by cautious grandmothers, grandmothers, anxious aunts and aunts, experienced nurses and learned doctors, then he will be killed very quickly, which is inevitable and unquestionable. Now, there was no one around him except a poor old lady and a parish doctor. The old lady was in a daze because she had drunk too much beer, while the doctor fulfilled her obligations according to the contract. Oliver and Nature wrestle at the tipping point between them to decide between a male and a female. As a result, after several struggles, Oliver took a breath, sneezed, and let out a cry, and began to announce to the residents of the workhouse that the parish had since added another mouth and a new burden. This cry is as we can reasonably expect. However, he was not born with this very useful appendage voice, but did not have it until more than three minutes and fifteen seconds later.

　　When Oliver first proved the free and unique function of his lungs, he was hastily thrown onto the patchwork bedspread on the iron bed frame and made a rustling sound; a young woman's pale face lifted feebly from the pillow, and a thin gossamer voice intermittently spat out the following words: "Let me see the child, and then die again." The surgeon sat with his face facing the stove, rubbing his hands together and roasting the fire. Hearing the young woman speak, he stood up, walked toward the head of the bed, and said in a more cordial tone than one could have expected:

　　"Oh, you can't talk about death yet."

　　"Oh my God, no!" The nurse interjected, hastily shoving a green glass bottle into her pocket. She had been tasting the contents of the bottle in the corner just now, visibly satisfied, "Oh my God! Sir, when she had lived to my age and had thirteen children, except for the two who were alive, and lived with me in the workhouse, she should have learned not to be so upset. Oh, my God! Think about what it's like to be a mother, a cute little baby, think about it. ”

　　Apparently, the prospect of a mother to comfort the woman failed to produce the desired effect. The patient shook his head and held out one hand to the child.

　　The surgeon put the baby in her arms. She imprinted her cold, pale lips affectionately on the child's forehead. She touched her face with both hands and stared around in horror, trembling. Then he leaned back and died. They rubbed her breasts, hands, and temples vigorously, but the blood stopped flowing. They spoke of hope and comfort. For a long time, the woman had not received hope and comfort.

　　"It's all over, Mrs. Dingomi!" The doctor finally said.

　　"Ah, poor man, it's over!" The nurse said, picking up the stopper of the green bottle, which she had dropped on the pillow when she bent down to hold the child, "Poor man! ”

　　"Nurse, if the child is crying, feel free to call me, don't care," said the doctor, putting on his gloves with great caution, "the baby is likely to be noisy, and if he is making trouble, feed him a little porridge." He put on his hat and stopped by the bedside as he walked toward the door, adding, "She's still a beautiful woman, where did she come from?" ”

　　"She was brought in last night," replied the old woman, "on the orders of the church's deacon's assistant to the poor." She was found lying on the street, and she had come quite a long way because her shoes were in tatters. But where she came from and where she was going, no one knew. ”

　　The doctor leaned over the corpse and raised her left hand. "It's still the same old way," he said, shaking his head, "and there is no ring on his hand." Ah, good night! ”

　　The doctor left there for dinner. Once again, the nurse was obsessed with her green bottle. Afterwards, she sat down in a low chair in front of the stove and began dressing the baby.

　　From the young Olivet West, this example can illustrate how powerful clothing is! Wrap him up in a blanket—the blanket has hitherto been his covering, and he may be the child of a nobleman or a beggar. It will be very difficult for a stranger with no one in sight to determine his social status. But now that he was wrapped in the old white cloth garment, which had turned yellow because it had been reused, he was labeled and immediately relegated to his class—the children of the parish, the orphans of the workhouse, the low-status half-starved and miserable man, a handcuffed, beaten, despised but unsympathetic character in the world. Oliver cried vigorously. If he had known that he was an orphan and would be at the mercy of the deacons of the church and the assistants for the poor, he might have cried even harder.

　　……